


The Caprices of Fate

by sneakertime



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Plotty, Pre-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-05-23 01:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6100063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneakertime/pseuds/sneakertime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition is in Val Royeaux to attend the coronation of Divine Victoria. When Dorian nearly killed by an assassin, the race is on to discover the identity of the person behind the attack, and what it is that they want. All while trying to navigate the many traps and pitfalls of The Game. In Val Royeaux, everybody has their secrets, and danger lurks around every corner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dorian Pavus had never been what you’d call devout. Oh, his parents had dragged him to Chantry services in his youth – for the sake of appearances, if nothing else. He’d found them to be unutterably dull, nothing more than a parade of dry clerics and pompous priests reciting stale verse.

Then, when he was fourteen, his father had sent him to a scripture class, in the vain hope of instilling some kind of religious serenity in his adolescent son. Dorian had been thrown out after a week for asking a lot of uncomfortable questions about the Magisterium burning Andraste.

Unsurprisingly then, as soon as he was old enough Dorian had refused to go to the Chantry anymore. His mother and father had been very annoyed about it, although if they’d had any idea of the later public embarrassments he’d go on to put them through, they probably wouldn’t have been so upset over something as small as a simple disinclination to false piety.

From then, right up until Redcliffe so many years later, Dorian had not darkened the door of any Chantry in Thedas. And even then Redcliffe probably didn’t count, as he’d only gone in to fight demons and conspire to undermine a secret cult.

Looking around now, at his opulent surroundings, Dorian had to reluctantly give it to the southerners. The Grand Cathedral put the Argent Spire to shame. It was vast, and everywhere you looked there were enormous statues of Andraste looming over the milling congregation. Gold and gilt dripped off everything. Elaborate murals covered the walls and the ceiling, depicting scenes from the Chant of Light. Even the damn seats were upholstered in finest silks and carved from exotic wood imported from Rivain.

Normally Dorian would have felt quite at home in such ostentatious surroundings. But in this instance he was feeling uncomfortably like a fox that had wandered into a henhouse, only to discover that the chickens were well armed and deeply hostile.

It felt like everywhere he looked there was someone shooting him a cold, suspicious stare. Magisters were not exactly popular in the south, and it didn’t seem to matter how many times Dorian reminded people that he wasn’t one, the message had clearly not arrived in Val Royeaux.

At first he’d almost enjoyed it – the way people’s heads turned automatically to watch him as he walked past. But he was beginning to tire of it rather.

‘Dorian, dearest…’ Vivienne appeared from among the crowds and gracefully slipped her arm through his. She was, of course, dressed impeccably from head to toe. Those who had been watching Dorian with barely disguised hostility turned away, or else nodded respectfully at the radiant Madame le Fer.

Vivienne graciously returned those nods to a select few, even as she gently but firmly steered Dorian away.

‘You are quite the talking point darling,’ she whispered to him as they walked. ‘The son of a Magister, a guest of honour at the crowning of the new Divine? Simply scandalous.’

‘I do aim to please,’ said Dorian, soaking up the curious looked the two of them were getting as Vivienne led him along the length of the Cathedral. It was tightly packed with people, and yet the crowds seemed to melt before Vivienne almost as if by magic.

She led him towards the seats nearest to the altar, where the great brazier containing the holy flame was burning. There were guards stationed to ensure that the common rabble didn’t make it this far, although in this instance the phrase ‘common rabble’ included half the nobility of Orlais.

They bowed silently and stepped aside as Vivienne swept past, Dorian carried along helplessly in her wake.

She finally deposited him with Cullen, who was sitting sullenly in an exquisitely tailored dress uniform made especially for the occasion. He was wearing it with all the enthusiasm of a man forced into a sackcloth, and yet somehow still contrived to look devastatingly handsome – not that Dorian would ever have dreamed of letting him know that. After all, watching the man try to take a compliment verged on the painful.

‘Not exactly your cup of tea, all of this, is it?’ Dorian remarked as he sat down. He had to manfully resist the urge to reach out and swat at Cullen’s hands to stop the man fiddling with his cuffs.

‘No,’ said Cullen shortly. His eyes flickered tellingly over to the far wall of the Cathedral, and Dorian followed their gaze. A row of Templars were standing rigidly to attention there, each in full armour and carrying large ceremonial swords.

Dorian had heard that usually, when a new Divine ascended to the Sunburst Throne, the Templar Order would march through the streets of Val Royeaux in a grand display to mark the occasion. There were certainly not enough of them left for that. Indeed, Dorian was faintly surprised to see any Templars at the ceremony at all. The ones in attendance must have been loyalists who’d stuck with the Chantry rather than indulging in mad, mage hunting vigilantism.

‘Feeling nostalgic for the old days?’ Dorian said to Cullen. He probably shouldn’t have – he knew his Templar days were a sore spot for Cullen – but sometimes his mouth just went ahead and said these things without consulting him.

‘Not at all,’ said Cullen, pointedly looking away. He tugged at the collar of his uniform jacket like it was a noose around his neck.

‘I think a rather large drink is in order for the both of us after this,’ Dorian sighed. He hadn’t been permitted to bring his staff along to the ceremony, and he was feeling oddly vulnerable without it. But then none of the other mages he’d seen about the place – Vivienne included – had been carrying staves either. And there were a surprisingly large number in attendance. Dorian supposed it was a new age for the Chantry and all that.

‘I can’t,’ said Cullen sourly, referring to the prospect of a drink. ‘The Divine wants to present herself to the people after this. She wants me to lead out a squadron of Inquisition troops ahead of her. It’s supposed to be some kind of show of unity.’

‘Well, I’ll have one for you then,’ Dorian volunteered charitably. ‘At some nice tavern a long way away from here, where there won’t be quite so many people giving me the stink-eye.’

‘They’re just interested,’ said Cullen with a shrug. ‘You’re a rare beast in Orlais. Most of them have never seen a Magister in the flesh. And what they’ve _heard_ …’

He nodded over Dorian’s shoulder at a large, much illuminated mural on the Cathedral wall. In it a host of hunched Magisters in flowing black robes huddled around a representation of the Golden City, reaching out towards it with grasping, greedy hands.

‘Which one’s supposed to be Corypheus do you think?’ Dorian asked lightly, examining the mural across the distance. ‘The one at the front I imagine. He seemed like the sort who always wants to go first.’

Their conversation was cut short by a sudden flurry of activity around them. People were ushered to their seats, the doors were closed, and a reverent hush fell over everyone until the only noise was that of the Chant of Light being softly sung.

This was it then – the grand show was about to begin. Cullen visibly straightened up out of his slouch, hands clasped over his knees and back ramrod straight. A strange kind of earnest solemnity shone out from his face, his eyes fixed forward towards the holy flame.

_This_ was the part of it all that Dorian disliked. Perhaps it was because he had been raised in Tevinter, where the position of Divine was a largely political appointment that went to the man best able to backstab and bribe his way into the position. Although from everything Leliana had told him, power plays and political backbiting flourished just as healthily in the cloisters of the south.

Dorian believed in the Maker. It wasn’t something he advertised, but there it was. Since he’d joined the Inquisition that plain and simple belief had solidified into something more powerful, but just as private. It was important to him.

He did not however believe in the Chantry. It was all a lot of inane twaddle and pontification as far as he was concerned. He knew this put him in the minority among his friends. Cullen believed wholeheartedly in the institution, as did Cassandra. Even Leliana, one of the most deeply cynical people Dorian had ever had the privilege of meeting, had chosen to dedicate most of her life to it. To them all this ceremony, all these enormous statues and archaic traditions, held some deeper, more valuable meaning.

Well, who knew, perhaps they were right. Over the last year Dorian had seen many of his iron clad convictions about the world crumble around him. These days he found it best to keep an open mind. In this particular instance however, he was fairly sure that he was right in thinking that holy Andraste didn’t care one lump of flaming nug dung about any of this extravaganza.

A procession of Grand Clerics marched solemnly through the Cathedral, finally assembling around the dais upon which the Sunburst Throne itself sat. They were all holding pennants embroidered in gold thread with the sunburst, and they were all singing the Chant. They couldn’t possibly be planning to stand there for the entire ceremony. At least half of them looked well over seventy.

Dorian was aware of a faint murmuring rippling through the seated congregation, and of people’s attention turning subtly to the back of the room.  He craned his head to see what all the fuss was about.

Empress Celene had arrived, surrounded by her royal bodyguard who melted away as she stepped gracefully into the central aisle of the Grand Cathedral. She was wearing a dress in red silk the colour of wine, and a delicate gold mask which Dorian’s expert eye judged to be inlaid with at least a dozen rubies. She looked magnificent.

By tradition, unmarried as she was, she should have been walking alone – the sole ruler of the Orlesian Empire. But instead she had her arm through that of the Lord Inquisitor, who was walking alongside her.

Trevelyan had on a uniform even more elaborate than Cullen’s. The wildly impractical ceremonial armour had been polished until it gleamed, the light of the thousand candles inside the Cathedral gleaming off the heraldry of the Inquisition.

He looked like something out of one of Varric’s absurd romance stories. Despite himself, Dorian’s mouth went a bit dry at the sight. As he walked, arm in arm with an empress, Trevelyan looked the very picture of solemn dignity. Which was just as well really, because Josephine had made him spend hours practising just the right posture.

‘You might want to close your mouth,’ Cullen whispered wryly in his ear. ‘Something might fly in.’

Dorian didn’t bother to dignify that with a response.

Behind Celene came other serious political power players. King Markus of Neverra was there, resplendent in dragon scale robes which must have cost a small fortune. Alistair Theirin, the King of Ferelden, followed behind him, looking very much as though he wanted the ground to swallow him up.

Bringing up the rear were the Merchant Princes of Antiva, and representatives of the ruling noble houses of the Free Marches. They all took their seats at the front of the Cathedral. Then the ceremony began in earnest, and Dorian resigned himself to falling into an agonizingly bored stupor for the next hour or so.

He amused himself as best he could by privately assessing the sartorial choices of his fellow guests. Some, in deference to the weight of the occasion were wearing plain, sober clothing – but somehow plain and sober in a manner that seemed explicitly designed to call attention to how plain and sober they were, and thus in turn the piousness of their owner. It was quite remarkable. Their tailors must have been paid a fortune.

Most of the assembled great and good however, were absolutely dripping in the very best of their finery. Religious iconography was a popular theme. One woman had even contrived to have her hair braided into a stylized sunburst, woven through with golden thread so that it glimmered. It was absolutely enormous, and very impressive, although it did seem to be rather upsetting the young man who’d had the misfortune to be seated directly behind her.

After forty-five minutes of readings by various interchangeable old women in Chantry robes, Dorian felt he was in serious danger of slipping into some kind of comatose state. Amazingly, sat next to him, Cullen was somehow contriving to actually look _interested_ in proceedings. He’d so far rebuffed every last one of Dorian’s efforts to make whispered conversation about whether or not Grand Cleric Merina looked like a mabari sucking on a wasp or a goat with bad wind.

At length, wallowing in boredom as he was, the notion occurred to Dorian that, should anything happen, nearly everyone of pre-eminence in southern Thedas was assembled in this one room. If there was an explosion like the one at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or even of the kind you could achieve with a few barrels of Qunari gaatlock, then the south would descend into helpless chaos for _years._

It was a rather sinister thought, but then Dorian was prone to those every now and then. After all, you could take the man out of the Imperium…

At last the moment for the crowning of the Divine had arrived. An eerie, expectant hush fell over the room, even the Chant dropping to a barely audible whisper. A door near the altar swung open, and a retinue of men and women in the uniform of the Seekers of Truth came marching out. At their head was Cassandra. She appeared solemn and serene, but Dorian couldn’t help noting even at this distance that she had an iron grip on the pommel of her sword. One Divine had already died on Cassandra’s watch, and Dorian suspected that absolutely nothing – not assassins, darkspawn, nor demons from the Fade – would get past her now.

Amidst her bodyguard of Seekers was Leliana, almost lost among the press of armour and half raised shields. Dorian barely recognised her dressed in the robes of the Divine. He would have liked to say that she looked radiant, or maybe even glorious, but the truth was all his attention was focused on the ridiculous hat she had on. It was truly something.

Yet more dull readings followed. Incense was thrown into the holy flame, various symbolic gestures were performed, and they were all called upon to sing their way through a portion of the Chant of Light.

Then, at long last, Leliana stepped forward onto the dais and seated herself on the Sunburst Throne. A buzz of excited energy rippled through the congregation as they all craned for a better look. The man sat behind the woman with the ornamental hair actually stood up.

‘Divine Victoria the First,’ one of the Grand Clerics announced. This was the cue for everyone in the room to rise to their feet, and then bow their heads in pious deference to their new spiritual leader. Dorian followed suit, because he knew his manners, but made sure to keep his bow suitably nonchalant.

The crowning of a new Divine was always a momentous occasion, but Dorian knew that this time it was particularly special. Not least because the last Most Holy had died in an enormous magical explosion that had wiped out the entire senior ranks of the Chantry in one go. And of course there had been all that messy business with the mages and the Templars, the Clerics complete inability to choose a successor to Justinia, and the small matter of the end of the world being avoided by a mere gnat’s breath.

Really it was a miracle they’d managed to finally get a backside on that seat at all. And it was a canny move to have offered it to a member of the Inquisition. ‘See?’ the decision seemed to proclaim. ‘There’s no division here. We certainly didn’t denounce them as heretics, and we definitely didn’t try to have Andraste’s Herald charged the murder of the Divine. Everything is just peachy here, no deep seated mutual distrust of any kind.’

After what felt like an age, the ceremony finally drew to an end. The reverent hushed silence descended into excited chatter, and the choir singing the Chant of Light resumed their task with renewed enthusiasm. Outside the Cathedral Dorian could hear the assembled crowd of thousands cheering, waiting impatiently for their first glimpse of Divine Victoria.

He’d been planning on a discreet but hasty exit, but had to remain seated until the Grand Clerics and all the rest of the high and mighty had departed first. His eyes followed Maxwell Trevelyan as he escorted the Empress back into the care of her Imperial bodyguard. As he passed by Trevelyan turned his head, and impossibly somehow managed to pick Dorian out of the crowd. He smiled briefly, and Dorian thought he caught the faintest hint of an eye roll before the man turned away again.

‘If you could see your face,’ Cullen muttered to him, just barely suppressing a laugh. ‘You look like a lovestruck teenager. I never thought I’d see the day.’

‘Oh, are you still here?’ Dorian shot back archly. ‘I thought you had some troops to lead. With all that heavy ceremonial armour on, and all those people watching, just waiting for you to make a mistake…’

‘Ugh,’ said Cullen, and slumped back into his seat.

As people began to file out of the building, a sudden flurry of loud conversation broke out as people rose from their seats and began to gossip with their neighbours. Dorian would have expected most of the chatter to have been about the Divine, and the momentous (if astonishingly boring) ceremony they’d all just witnessed. But when he began to eavesdrop, he heard hardly one mention of the newly minted Most Holy.

‘Did you see the Herald of Andraste?’ said the Antivan Merchant Prince sitting directly behind Dorian and Cullen, speaking excitedly to the noblewoman sitting next to him.

‘Arm in arm with the Empress!’ she replied. ‘Do you think he will be at any of the soirees tonight?’

The final defeat of Corypheus only seemed to have confirmed Trevelyan’s divine status in the eyes of the faithful. They truly believed he had been sent by Andraste to save them in their darkest hour. People had even begun making pilgrimages to Skyhold in hope of catching a glimpse of the man, something that both Cullen and Josephine had been scrambling to put a stop to before it got out of hand.

If anything it was worse in the city. Since the Inquisition retinue had arrived in Val Royeaux three days go, the Inquisitor had been asked to bless no less than eight babies. Watching him awkwardly squirm his way out of it had been most amusing.

Abandoning Cullen to his impending fate, Dorian got up and gracefully weaved his way through the milling crowd. He caught the word ‘Herald’ in several snatches of conversation as he went. If Maxwell had been hoping for a relatively low key trip to Val Royeaux, then it seemed he was going to be sorely disappointed.

It all left Dorian feeling quite conflicted. On the one hand he knew Trevelyan disliked the attention. Not to mention that the man’s life was quite embroiled enough in conspiracy, intrigues, and political backstabbing without adding in the pitfalls of the Game. On the other hand however, Dorian felt emphatically that these people _should_ be talking about him. He’d overcome an impossible foe, saved them all, and snatched the entire world back from the very brink. If that didn’t merit some degree of fascination, then Dorian didn’t know what did.

Of course Dorian knew he was biased. Trevelyan had commanded his personal fascination long before he’d brought Corypheus’s doom down upon him.

The exiting congregation were moving frustratingly slowly, and eventually he made his escape by ducking out of a side door. The great boulevard outside was packed with people, all jostling for position and the best vantage point. Dorian elbowed his way through them, until finally the crowd thinned and he managed to slip down a relatively deserted side alley.

He’d been rather counting on having Cullen to keep him company for that large drink he’d mentioned. Without him it just didn’t hold the same appeal. And Dorian had been meaning to visit the White Spire since arriving in the Orlesian capital. The library there was said to be one of the finest magical collections in all of Thedas – if somewhat dented by the Mage Rebellion.

Now that the situation had calmed, some of the mages in Skyhold had petitioned Empress Celene to allow them back into the White Spire to tend to the library. A compromise had eventually been reached, largely mediated by Josephine. Orlais would allow the mages to act as custodians of the books, so long as the mages agreed that said books ultimately belonged to Orlais.

It was very easy to find the White Spire – after all it loomed above the skyline of Val Royeaux like an ominous sentinel. Dorian just headed towards it. After the insufferable dullness of the Cathedral, a pleasant afternoon spent poking through the ancient grimoires of the largest Circle of Magi in southern Thedas held great appeal.

He passed several celebrations on the way. He wondered what exactly people were celebrating – was it the ascension of the new Divine, or the apparent end of such a long period of strife and uncertainty? Thedas had been through a great deal these past ten years. The Fifth Blight, the collapse of the Circles, the civil war in Orlais… Not to mention the devastation wrought by Corypheus and his Venatori. Now there was an atmosphere of renewal in the air, a vague sense that peaceful, prosperous times were just around the corner. That the worst of it all was over.

It put Dorian on edge. In his experience, the moment you let your guard down was usually when life well and truly kicked you in the teeth.

There were guards posted to the gate of the White Spire, and they were rather reluctant to let him in. Fortunately one of the mages there recognised him from Skyhold. Random wandering Tevinter types were not welcome, but members of the Inquisition apparently were. It helped that Dorian had come without his staff, and thus technically unarmed.

The library turned out to be on one of the highest floors of the tower. To reach it Dorian was forced to climb a very long and very steep winding staircase. To his disgust he very nearly broke a sweat.

Back in the Imperium there was a popular school of thought that said that all southern mages were a bit backwards, forced to practice only the most childishly simple of magics under the vigilant gazes of the Templars. After all, the reasoning went, if they were permitted to wield any _real_ power then why would they submit themselves to such degrading imprisonment?

Dorian knew this to be nonsense, but inspecting the library of the White Spire reminded him of exactly how much nonsense it truly was. There was a wealth of theoretical work on the shelves, any number of complicated and fascinating dissertations on a wide variety of magical topics. True, it was not as extensive at the Arcanist Hall back in Minrathous, but it was impressive nonetheless.

The real difference between this and Tevinter, Dorian mused to himself as he browsed the shelves, was that nobody was going to secretly execute a dozen slaves in order to test their little theories out.

He was faintly surprised at how many other mages there were in the library. He’d expected the Spire to be a husk, the tomb of a way of life that was gone, probably never to return. Instead there was a sense of bustling activity and purpose in the air.

‘Been busy?’ he asked one of the library’s custodians, a young lad with a face covered in pimples and a sad, wispy effort at a beard.

‘Very!’ said the boy enthusiastically. ‘We’ve had people come from all over to see the library. All kinds of people too. Hedge witches from the wilds, some of the Dalish, even a former First Enchanter…’

Dorian could understand why they’d all come. The books were very interesting. So interesting in fact that day turned to night almost without him noticing. It was only when somebody told him that the guards were soon going to be locking the gates that he realised how late the hour had grown.

Outside the streets were just as busy as they’d been earlier in the day. There was still a powerful celebratory mood in the air. There were musicians playing in the streets, and stalls selling food both sweet and savoury. The taverns he passed were all packed to the rafters, their patrons spilling out onto the street.

Dorian meandered lazily back to the Maison Vaille, the lavish mansion on temporary loan to the Inquisition, a gift from the Empress herself. The guards on the door saluted him as he passed. Inside the house was quiet. Dorian presumed that the others were still occupied with the innumerable soirees and parties taking place that night. He spared a brief, pitying thought for poor Cullen, who was probably having a truly terrible time somewhere.

Dorian had been assigned a bedroom of his own in the mansion, by a well-meaning housekeeper who hadn’t known any better. He hadn’t stepped foot in it once since they’d arrived. Instead he went straight to the room he’d been sharing with Trevelyan. Briefly his mind flashed back to the way he’d looked in the Cathedral, appallingly handsome and walking arm in arm with an Empress. A pleasant warmth spread through Dorian as he looked forward to the prospect of removing every piece of that lavish ceremonial armour bit by bit.

With that he mind, he decided to stay up and wait for the Inquisitor to return. Perhaps he might send down to the kitchen for some wine, and then sit out on the balcony to listen to Val Royeaux celebrating.

His first clue that something was amiss came when he stepped into the room to find it in darkness. The servants should have lit the candles by now. And maybe they had. Dorian thought he could smell a faint hint of smoke lingering on the air, perhaps from a recently extinguished candle wick.

Abruptly the bedroom door slammed shut behind him, completely cutting off what little light had been coming in from the hallway. There was movement in the darkness, a muffled tread on the floor. And before Dorian could do or say anything, the sudden hot pain of a knife in his side.


	2. Chapter 2

Agony pierced Dorian as he stumbled backwards, his legs briefly threatening to give way underneath him. He felt the clothes at his waist grow wet with blood, and for one horrible second he thought that it was all over. But then his legs strengthened underneath him, his heart began to hammer insistently in his chest, and he realised that – while it bloody hurt like the blazes – the wound was not immediately mortal.

Whoever his would-be assassin was, they’d missed their target in the darkness. But Dorian knew it wouldn’t be long before they tried to rectify their mistake. He had to move, and fast. He was sure the assassin was between him and the door, so there was no escape that way. That left the balcony, which was connected to the study next door.

Dorian tried to move as quickly as he could, desperately ignoring the way that it made the blood pour ever faster out of the wound in his side. He was only a few strides from the balcony door when the assassin cut him off, a gloved hand closing around his arm and yanking him back violently. Dorian twisted in the grip, just barely managing to yank himself free before he could be stabbed again.

He stumbled forward, staggering into the wall. The assassin followed, lashing out blindly with their blade. It got caught in Dorian’s robes, tearing through the fine fabric but mercifully just missing the man underneath. The shadowy figure hissed and cursed under their breath.

There was no escape now. He was hemmed in, caught between the assassin in front of him and the solid wall behind. On top of that he was starting to feel weak, his strength leaving him as he continued to bleed profusely. He slumped back against the wall for support, and knocked into something that had been left leaning against it. It fell, and instinctively Dorian reached out to grab it.

At once a feeling of power settled over him, like a warm balm. It was his _staff_. Dorian silently offered prayers of thanks to Andraste, The Maker, and anyone else who might have been listening for the desperate stroke of luck.

He swung the staff round in front of him, summoning up all his remaining strength, and trying hopelessly to ignore the burning pain in his side. The assassin was just visible as a faint outline against the window, accompanied by the slight glimmer of moonlight on a sharp blade. They were moving forward, towards Dorian.

The fireball Dorian unleashed illuminated the entire room. He had just enough time to make out a horrified face staring helplessly up at it before there was a large explosion, followed by the stomach churning smell of burning flesh.

The staff fell from his fingers and he dropped to his knees, suddenly dizzy. He could hear the sound of running feet getting closer, and then the door burst open and some guards ran in. They froze for a moment, taking in the horrible tableau of the burning corpse on the floor and the bloodied mage on his knees. Dorian opened his mouth to tell them to stop gawping and get help, but the words wouldn’t come. His throat felt tight, and his vision was blurring. The world span nauseatingly, and then cool blackness came rushing in.

He came round sometime later. He was in a very comfortable bed, and the agonizing pain had receded to a persistent ache. He was vaguely aware that there were people around him, talking in serious, hushed tones. He blinked up at them, trying to will the room to come into focus.

‘No sign of forced entry…’ said a voice off to his left. He recognised it as Josephine’s. The world began to sharpen, until he could make her out properly. She was talking to Trevelyan. He was listening to her with a stony expression on his face. Dorian noticed that he was still wearing the ceremonial armour. He imagined that there would be little opportunity to remove it at his leisure now. The evening had taken a rather different turn.

He noted two guards at the door. Cullen was there, talking to them sternly. Nobody in the room seemed to have noticed that he’d woken up. Perched on the side of the bed was an elf Dorian had never seen before. She was wearing mage robes, and was busy readying an elfroot poultice. A healer then. She caught him watching her, and smiled down kindly at him.

‘Best to sleep it off,’ she whispered to him. She waved a hand, and the comforting blackness took him back.

…

The next time Dorian woke the pain in his side had faded almost completely. It was morning, and there was a songbird singing loudly just outside the window. Dorian wished it would shut up, it was giving him a headache.

He was in a different bedroom to the one he’d been attacked in. Awkwardly, and with some effort, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. There was a protesting twinge from his ribs. Propping himself back against the pillows, Dorian recalled the events of the night before.

Somebody had tried to kill him. Dorian chastised himself for not having been more careful. This was Val Royeaux, not Skyhold. Shadowy murder and secret conspiracies were all part of high society life here. Once upon a time he would never have been so foolish or so incautious as to walk blindly into a dark room.

He turned his head to the side and discovered that Maxwell Trevelyan was sitting in a chair next to the bed, fast asleep. He’d changed into something more practical, and his sword was leaning against his knee, out of its scabbard. Trevelyan had one hand resting lightly on the pommel, ready to grab the blade at a moment’s notice. The silverite edge gleamed in the morning light. Dorian knew that Maxwell kept the edge of the damned thing razor sharp.

He must have been sitting there all night, keeping watch. Dorian’s heart ached for a moment. He swung his legs out over the side of the bed, and leaned forward to rest his hand lightly over Trevelyan’s forearm. Gently he shook him awake.

Trevelyan didn’t jerk awake. He woke silently and instantly, hand tightening briefly on the grip of his sword until he noticed Dorian. Their eyes met, and for a long moment they just stared at each other.

‘How are you feeling?’ Trevelyan asked at last, voice rough with sleep. He brought one hand up to cover Dorian’s, where it was still resting on Trevelyan’s arm. There were dark circles under his eyes, and Dorian wondered how much sleep he’d actually gotten last night.

‘Well, considered that someone did their utmost to send me to meet Blessed Andraste last night, I can’t really complain,’ Dorian said lightly. He shifted slightly on the mattress, relieved when the slight twinge in his side got no worse. Whoever the elven healer who’d tended to him had been, she had been very gifted.

Trevelyan leaned forward, expression intent. ‘What exactly happened?’ he said. ‘Who attacked you?’ Some unknown emotion blazed behind his eyes, and Dorian noticed that he’d tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword to the point that his knuckles had gone white. He was _angry_ , Dorian realized with a jolt.

Carefully Dorian extricated his hand from under Trevelyan’s, and used it to gently coax the other hand from the death grip it had on the sword. He linked their fingers together, running the pad of his thumb softly over the Mark where it was carved into Maxwell’s palm.

The flinty look in Trevelyan’s eyes softened, and he slumped back into the chair. He _was_ tired Dorian noted.

At length Dorian told him the story of the night before. How he’d come back to find their bedroom in darkness, and with an assassin lurking in the shadows. How he’d been stabbed before he’d even had chance to realize what was going on, and how by a pure stroke of luck he’d stumbled across his staff. And then how he’d used it to dispatch his would-be murderer to an unpleasant, fiery end.

‘Do we know who sent him? Dorian asked. He hadn’t ever gotten a good look at the man, just that brief glimpse of a terrified face.

‘No,’ said Trevelyan with a weary shake of the head. ‘Our agents are making enquiries, but it’s difficult. You didn’t leave much left to examine.’

‘Sorry,’ said Dorian. ‘Strangely enough, I had other matters on my mind at the time.’

There was a polite knock at the door. Dorian dropped Trevelyan’s hand as Josephine entered, carrying with her a tray of what looked like Antivan spiced tea.

‘Dorian! It’s good to see you awake at last,’ she said. ‘I thought you might both be in need of some refreshment.’

Dorian took the proffered cup gratefully. Trevelyan waved his away. He hated the stuff, always complaining of the strange taste it left in his mouth. He always knew if Dorian had been drinking it, making a face and pulling away sharply after kissing him. Rather than being offended Dorian found it amusing and somewhat adorable.

Josephine settled in a chair, nursing her own cup of tea. She enquired after his health, and then, like Trevelyan, asked him about the previous night.

‘He missed his first strike?’ Josephine said when Dorian came to that part. ‘Not a Crow then. Nor a member of the House of Repose.’ She sighed deeply and shook her head. ‘We have been too incautious. _I_ have been too incautious. I forget we have made enemies as well as friends. Without Leliana to watch the shadows for us, we should all be on our guards.’

‘Any news?’ said Trevelyan.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Josephine. ‘Our people are still investigating. Of course, I will let you know the moment anything is uncovered. In the meantime Commander Cullen has doubled the guard, and I have taken the liberty of posting some of our more… discreet operatives to watch the building as well.’

‘Well,’ said Dorian brightly hauling himself to his feet. His side protested at the sudden movement, and he stubbornly ignored it. ‘Sounds like you have everything well in hand. So what’s on the schedule for today then? King Markus is giving some kind of a party isn’t he? Personally I cannot wait to see Cassandra enjoy a little family reunion.’

‘You aren’t going,’ said Trevelyan sharply, getting to his feet as well. ‘You should stay here and rest.’

‘I’m perfectly fine,’ said Dorian firmly. ‘It’s hardly the worst injury I’ve ever received. Barely even twinges now.’

‘Someone is trying to _kill_ you,’ Trevelyan insisted testily.

‘Are they?’ Dorian shot back at once. ‘It wasn’t my bedroom that this assassin was waiting in, was it? Not officially, at least. And in the darkness one man looks much like another. No amatus, someone is trying to kill _you_.’

Trevelyan just stared at him, visibly taken aback. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him, Dorian realized. But it made perfect sense. What would the assassin have truly been able to see in the dark? Just enough to know that a human male had walked into the room, nothing more. And in the circumstances it would have been perfectly natural for him to assume that the man in question was the Lord Inquisitor.

‘I imagine Josephine agrees with me, yes?’ said Dorian, looking to the ambassador for an ally.

‘I think we should rule nothing out,’ she said with her usual careful diplomacy. ‘I have no doubt that there are a great many people in this world who bear you ill will Dorian, no offense intended. But on balance… yes, I believe there is a strong possibility that this attack was intended for you Inquisitor.’

‘And will _you_ be spending the rest of the day indoors, hiding from assassins?’ said Dorian pointedly. He didn’t need a response, the look on Trevelyan’s face said it all. ‘No, of course you won’t. And so, while I appreciate the concern, I will be accompanying you to this little get together after all. If somebody is trying to kill you, they will have to go through me first.’

‘They nearly already did,’ said Trevelyan quietly. He was staring seriously at Dorian, and his face had gone all pinched. There was a sudden unpleasant tension in the room.

‘Ah, if you will excuse me…’ said Josephine, sensing the change in atmosphere. She gathered up the tea things and withdrew, closing the door quietly behind her.

Trevelyan turned away from Dorian, rolling his shoulders to try and ease out some of the tension. Something popped, making Dorian wince. Had he really sat up all night, watching over Dorian just in case some extremely foolhardy assassin made a second attempt? It had been completely ridiculous of him, and in no way made Dorian’s heart flutter treacherously in his chest.

Dorian put a hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder and gently turned him round. Then he put his other hand on the back of the man’s neck, and pulled him in for a kiss.

‘You taste like that tea…’ Trevelyan complained, half-heartedly pushing him away.

‘I’ve had a near death experience,’ Dorian told him firmly. ‘You can put up with the tea.’ He hauled Maxwell in again.

At first it was like kissing an ill-tempered statue, but then at last the man unwound, put his arms around Dorian, and went along with it.

‘I’m absolutely fine,’ said Dorian when they broke apart a few inches. ‘Fit as a fiddle. Really amatus, there’s no reason to be so distressed.’

‘I am not _distressed_ ,’ Trevelyan said shortly, in what Dorian privately fancied was quite a distressed manner. ‘You didn’t see yourself last night. When I got back here you were still covered in blood. They had to pour three elfroot potions down your throat before the healer could even set to work. I have every right to be worried about you.’

‘And now it’s all over, and I am perfectly well again,’ Dorian reminded him. ‘See for yourself.’ He pulled up the hem of the loose cotton shirt somebody had changed him into. Across his side, just above the jut of his hip, there was nothing but a thin red mark where the knife had entered. It probably wouldn’t even scar. Dorian considered that he ought to send the elven healer a fruit basket or something.

‘You didn’t see yourself,’ Trevelyan simply repeated, uncharacteristically irritable. He clearly needed some proper sleep, not a fitful doze with a sword clutched in one hand.

‘I’m going back to bed,’ Dorian said. ‘You should come with me, you look half ready to drop where you stand.’

He expected Trevelyan to object, to stubbornly insist that there might be assassins lurking behind the curtains, just waiting for them to drop their guard. But instead he removed his boots and his coat, and let Dorian drag him into bed. It was a luxurious, typically Orlesian affair, with goose feather pillows and fine bed linen.

Trevelyan wrapped an arm firmly around Dorian’s waist, as though afraid he might vanish in a puff of smoke, and then almost immediately fell asleep.

Dorian stayed awake. He’d had plenty of rest the night before, even if it had been magically induced. Besides, his thoughts were too restless for sleep. He kept on turning the previous night over and over, worrying at it. Trevelyan, for all that he could be impossibly devious and charming when he had to be, was unfamiliar with the more brutal side of the Game. Dorian on the other hand was intimately familiar with such things. If Val Royeaux was a nest of vipers, then Minrathous was a pit of starving varghests.

It was foolish to think that the Inquisitor was somehow unreachably safe in Skyhold. Part of what made the Inquisition so influential, and so well regarded by ordinary citizens, was its willingness to take in anyone. An elven stable hand from some destitute alienage, with no skills other than shovelling horse feed, would be found a place within the ranks and encouraged to feel an important part of something greater.

And all that was exceedingly admirable, but it did mean that practically anyone could get within striking distance of Trevelyan with relatively little subterfuge. The man walked about his fortress unarmed and unguarded.

But when all was said and done, Skyhold was home. Val Royeaux was not. And now somebody here was actively trying to kill one of them. Dorian complained often and at length about the cold in the Frostbacks, but right now, if he thought there was any chance of Trevelyan listening, he would have suggested that they pack up and head off back to the mountains that very morning.

His thoughts moved on to possible culprits, the identity of the hidden hand behind the assassin. The sad truth was that the list of possible suspects was too long to be of much help. In the space of a year Trevelyan had gone from being the unknown youngest child of some minor Free Marches noble to one of the most powerful individuals in Thedas. What was it that they said about the Inquisition? That it had eyes and ears everywhere? That kind of thing tended to put people on edge.

Half the Chantry feted Maxwell Trevelyan as the Herald of Andraste, while the other half despised him as a heretic. The Magisterium would have liked him to just disappear altogether. And there were plenty of people in Orlais still upset about Trevelyan’s decision to throw his weight behind the Empress, and not Gaspard de Chalons.

And then there were the enemies that Dorian had made. They were not inconsiderable in number, and largely consisted of wealthy, influential, and morally corrupt Tevinter nobility – exactly the kind of people who wouldn’t hesitate to send a hired killer to do their dirty work.

Frankly it was amazing that it had taken this long for a real assassination attempt to have been made on their lives. Trevelyan in particular collected enemies like other people collected novelty playing cards.

Dorian sighed, and turned his head slightly so that he could press a soft kiss to Maxwell’s temple. The idea of anything happening to him was unspeakable. Dorian could not – _would_ not – allow it to come to pass.

…

King Markus Pentaghast’s little get together was being held at the Neverran embassy, a palatial building just off the Avenue of the Sun. Dorian brought his staff along. It was bad etiquette, but he was damned if he was going in unarmed. Besides, it seemed as though half the city already thought he was a black-hearted malificar, why not embrace the image?

On their first day in Val Royeaux, Vivienne had insisted that Dorian come with her to visit her tailor. The woman had dissolved into fits of despair at the idea of producing an outfit in less than four days. Her absolute insistence that it was impossible had been magically cured by the liberal application of money.

Dorian had to admit, he was impressed with the final product. If this was what the woman was capable of in four days, they he could only imagine what she might produce in a month. It was a rich shade of dark green, immaculately cut, and somehow managing to convey several degrees of louche rakishness all at once.

‘You look incredible,’ Trevelyan had said outright, when he’d first seen Dorian wearing it. His utter open sincerity in such matters always left Dorian feeling slightly wrong-footed and pleasantly flustered.

‘Of course I do,’ he’d replied, as nonchalantly as he could manage. ‘When do I not?’

The soiree was already in full swing by the time Josephine, Dorian and Maxwell arrived. They were announced as they entered, and most of the heads in the room turned to look at them. Almost the moment Trevelyan stepped foot into the grand hall he was accosted on all sides, and was promptly swept away by a band of calculating admirers wishing to speak – and be _seen_ speaking – to the Herald of Andraste.

Dorian watched him go with narrowed eyes, but decided that no assassin would strike in such a public, and well-guarded, place.

Josephine was quickly monopolized herself, leaving Dorian alone to sip at his wine. He admired the scenery. The Nevarrans had put on a truly spectacular display, no doubt to show that, when they wished to, they could more than rival Orlais for ornamental splendour. Those attending were a select and high ranking group.  No doubt a hundred secret alliances and a dozen murderous schemes were being carefully concocted over the mousse canapés.

‘Ugh,’ said a familiar voice behind Dorian. Cassandra materialized at his side. She was dressed in formal uniform, and looked every bit as uncomfortable as she had at the Winter Palace all those moons ago. Among the fine ladies and gentlemen of the soiree she stood out like a sore thumb.

‘If I have to endure another one of these foolish parties then I may well harm someone,’ she said testily.

‘Yes, this is all rather wasted on you, isn’t it?’ agreed Dorian. ‘You know these are a thousand men and women in this city who would sell their own grandmothers for an invitation to this little get together?’

‘And they would be welcome to it,’ Cassandra said emphatically. ‘I heard about what happened at the Maison Vaille last night. You are fully recovered?’

‘Fit as a fiddle, as I keep on having to tell people.’

‘Nevertheless, it is a concerning development,’ said Cassandra. ‘I will be pleased when these ridiculous celebrations are over and we may all return to our work.’

‘Yes. I never thought I’d be in a hurry to get back to that freezing, draughty old fortress, but I find myself feeling quite nostalgic for the place. For starters, nobody there has ever tried to stick a knife in me.’

‘Although I’m sure plenty have considered it,’ said Cassandra with a dry smile. ‘But in all seriousness Dorian, you should watch your back. Whoever sent that assassin will likely try again, and with a more experienced blade this time.’

‘They weren’t after me,’ Dorian insisted. ‘They were after the Inquisitor.’

‘That is conjecture only. We cannot yet know the true purpose behind this incident, and so we must not close our minds to any possibility. It’s a pity Leliana is no longer with us. Untwisting these kinds of webs was her speciality, it is certainly not mine. Perhaps…’

Cassandra trailed off, gazed fixed on somebody in the crowd of people around them. She scowled. ‘If you will excuse me, I have to find some dark corner to hide myself in…’

‘Old nemesis is it?’

‘Worse. It is my great aunt. She clucks like an impatient hen.’

She slunk away. Dorian half considered pointing the dreaded great aunt in the right direction, just for the sheer amusement of it. He thought better of it. After all, there were trained killers on the loose and he might soon find himself rather glad of Cassandra’s good opinion. Say what you liked about the woman, but she fought like an enraged demon.

Dorian idly finished the rest of his wine. His glass was empty for mere moments before an elven servant appeared to refill it. There was certainly something to be said for the trappings of high society. This was the life that Dorian had been born into. No matter how much time he spent among the strange, the outcast, and the downright criminal, no matter how long he lived in dank fortresses or in camps on the very edges of civilization, there would always be a part of him that felt most at home here – sipping fine wine and being waited on hand and foot.

He was about to drink some of the wine when a horrible thought struck him. He looked over his shoulder, trying to find the elven servant who’d topped up his glass, but she’d vanished. He’d barely paid her any attention. She could so easily have slipped something in the wine…

‘You drink is perfectly safe Lord Pavus,’ a voice said smoothly. He turned to find the newly minted Marquise of the Dales watching him, a faint smile playing about her mouth. ‘Although I’m impressed you thought of it. Most nobles would never accept a glass of anything from their rivals, but from some elven maid they’d never laid eyes on before in their life? They’d take it without a second thought. They think of servants as furniture.’

‘Ah well, I’ve been rather re-educated on that front,’ said Dorian. Just meeting Sera had been an education in itself. Once Dorian had stopped being appalled by her he’d come to quite like her – in very small doses at least. She’d come with the Inquisition to Val Royeaux, but had vanished at once, declaring that she had business to attend to. Dorian hadn’t seen her since. He imagined they were probably all much happier _not_ knowing what she was doing.

Briala nodded. ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ she said. She had on a white mask encrusted with little pearls. The eyes behind it were sharp and suspicious.

‘Are you enjoying the party?’ Dorian asked her conversationally.

‘I’m an outsider here,’ Briala said with a neat little shrug. ‘They say pleasant enough things to my face, then call me a knife-ear when they think I can’t hear them anymore.’

‘How ill-mannered.’

‘They say things about you as well, Lord Pavus.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Dorian lightly. ‘Evil magister? Dangerous corrupting influence? Possibly I have the Inquisitor under some kind of sinister Tevinter mind control?’

Briala’s lip twitched. ‘Something like that. Incidentally, I have a piece of information that might interest you. I heard about the attempt on your life last night.’

‘It seems everyone has.’

‘This is Val Royeaux, nothing stays secret for long. Especially from me. I thought you might be interested to know that a fellow countryman of yours arrived in the city a fortnight ago. A Lady Juliana Erimond. Elder sister of one Lord Livius Erimond, formerly of Vyrantium. A woman with a reason to hold a grudge against the Inquisition, don’t you think?’

‘Erimond had a sister?’ Dorian said, surprised. Livius Erimond was not a name he’d ever expected to hear again. The Inquisition had handed him over to the Grey Wardens, who’d promptly chopped off the little weasel’s head.

‘A member of the Magisterium,’ said Briala. ‘Like her brother. Except that when Tevinter found out about the younger Magister Erimond’s involvement with the Venatori, the rest of the family got caught up in the scandal as well. The Erimonds are political poison in the Imperium now, nobody wants to touch them. All that power and influence, gone. And she could make a case that it’s the Inquisition that’s to blame.’

‘What? I’d say it’s her deluded, power-mad brother who’s to blame. The man wanted to help Corypheus enslave the world!’

Briala shrugged. ‘People aren’t always rational about these things. Especially the rich and powerful. Do with the information what you will. Here’s the address of the house she’s taken. If I hear anything more, one of my agents will pass it along.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ said Dorian suspiciously.

Briala smiled. It was not very friendly. ‘I’m not doing it for you, or for the Inquisition. I owe Lord Trevelyan a debt. He returned something to me that I thought lost forever. I’m… grateful.’

With that she nodded curtly to Dorian, and disappeared into the crowd.

He looked down at the scrap of paper she’d handed him. There was a short address written on it, for a street near the Night Gates. Not a very affluent part of town. The kind of place a foreign noble would go to lie low and remain unnoticed.

He knew he ought to share this information with the others. But he found himself feeling very reluctant to. Juliana Erimond was from Tevinter, like him. She was from a noble family, like him. She was a mage, like him. The thought of the Inquisition tangling with yet another one of Dorian’s countrymen, another noble mage with the moral fibre of a damp dishcloth, was just too much. Tevinter had problems, nobody knew that better than Dorian. But there was good there too, and he was sick of his closest friends only ever seeing the very worst that the Imperium had to offer.

He slipped the scrap of paper into his pocket. He would deal with this himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian woke early the next day, just before dawn. Trevelyan stirred slightly next to him as Dorian slipped out of their bed, but remained sound asleep as he dressed quietly and gathered his things. Dorian brushed the lightest of touches across Maxwell’s hair, before silently exiting the room.

True to his word, Cullen had substantially increased the guard around the mansion. But their job was to stop strangers from breaking _in_ , not members of the Inquisition from strolling _out_. The two guarding the little side entrance even saluted Dorian as he passed them by.

Even at such an ungodly hour, the streets of Val Royeaux were far from deserted. There were lots of people scurrying about their business as the sun began to rise over the city. A baker at the far end of the street was already open, a truly mouth-watering smell wafting out from the premises. Dorian went in and bought himself one of those delicious little butter pastries that so many Orlesians ate for breakfast. He ate it as he walked in the direction of the Night Gates.

In a street of run-down tenements, the house being rented by Lady Erimond stood out as particularly decrepit. It was large though, bigger than any of the other houses around it. There was no sign of anybody about the place. But then Dorian hadn’t been planning on knocking.

Varric had once imparted a few tricks to Dorian. He might otherwise have forgotten them, but then magic couldn’t do everything, and it never hurt to have a little extra up your sleeve. So he’d practised a little. He was nowhere near Varric’s level – sometimes the dwarf seemed to be able to open any lock with nothing more than wink and a smile – but he could manage something basic. And the bulky iron lock before him was as basic as it came.

Fortunately the door was set back a little way from the street, mostly concealed from any passers-by.  This gave Dorian a certain degree of privacy as he fiddled awkwardly with the lock, cursing as his fingers slipped. It took him some time, but it was much quieter than blasting the door off its hinges, which had been Dorian’s plan B.

He opened the unlocked door and slipped inside. The house was much cleaner inside than Dorian had expected. But then Lady Erimond would not have come without servants, even if she was staying in this ramshackle heap.

And then, because he had truly terrible luck, Dorian immediately ran into one of them. She was coming down the stairs, her arms full of freshly laundered linen. She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes carefully registering the staff in his hand and the open front door. Then, without warning, she suddenly turned and bolted back the way she’d came – making enough noise to wake an Archdemon as she went.

Dorian cursed. So much for the element of surprise then. He hurried after her. Speed was suddenly of the essence. He needed to catch the Magister off her guard.

The upper floor of the house consisted of one long passageway with a very moth-eaten rug laid out over bare floorboards. Doors branched off at regular intervals. The nearest one of these to Dorian flew open, and two men in armour came rushing out, brandishing swords. The armour they were wearing was unmistakably Tevinter in design.

Dorian swung his staff round and blasted them both with a burst of energy. The guards stumbled backward into the room they’d just exited, tripping over each other and landing in a sprawl on the floor.

As they were thrashing around, trying to pick themselves up, Dorian noticed that some absolute treasure had left the key in the door. As they were scrambling to their feet he neatly shut the door on them, and locked them in.

The noise of their bellowing echoed after him as he continued down the passageway. Fortunately, it appeared that, despite its shambolic appearance outside, the house was sturdy enough inside. It would take them a few minutes at least to batter their way through the door.

Dorian didn’t have to search long to find Juliana Erimond. The very last door at the end of the passageway burst open, and a hastily dressed woman holding a Magister’s staff came marching out. She looked a little like her brother, with similar sharp blue eyes, but then was a quiet composure to her that Livius Erimond had lacked. She regarded Dorian carefully as he advanced on her, her staff held at the ready.

‘Dorian Pavus,’ she said at least. ‘Son of Magister Halward Pavus. How very nice to meet you. You must excuse my informal appearance. Your visit was… unexpected.’

‘Let’s not bother with the pleasantries shall we, Magister?’ Dorian said. ‘I expect you know why I’m here. Rather foolhardy of you to come to Val Royeaux yourself, if you don’t mind me saying. But perhaps you wanted to oversee things personally.’

Juliana Erimond’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate, Lord Pavus,’ she said smoothly.

‘Two nights ago an assassin was discovered hiding in Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan’s bedroom,’ said Dorian, studying her face carefully for any tells. ‘Fortunately the man was unable to complete his task. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?’

Magister Erimond regarded Dorian steadily for a long moment. There was the briefest flicker of something in her eyes – Dorian thought it might have been relief.

‘No,’ she said carefully, lowering her staff ever so slightly. ‘I do not know anything about that.’

‘Really? Dorian scoffed. ‘Then what, pray tell, are you doing in Val Royeaux? Especially hiding out in a dilapidated shack like this?’ The house was hardly a dilapidated shack, but then the both of them were Tevinter nobility. It might as well have been.

At that precise moment the two armoured thugs finally managed to break through the locked door, and came spilling out into the passageway. They hefted their swords, and began to advance on Dorian – but faltered when Magister Erimond held up a hand to stop them.

‘My dear Lord Pavus,’ she said. ‘I am not in Val Royeaux to assassinate the Herald of Andraste. Quite the opposite in fact. I am here to pledge my support to the Inquisition.’

…

Somehow the two of them wound up taking tea together. It was a Tevinter blend, one that was very hard to get hold of any further south than the Free Marches. It reminded Dorian of home – a feeling that was only intensified by sitting opposite Juliana Erimond in her elaborate Magister’s robes.

They were seated in a cramped little room that she was using as a study. Erimond was seated behind her desk, sat up perfectly straight, watching Dorian with sharp eyes. 

‘You would be forgiven for thinking I hold a grudge over my brother’s death,’ she said. ‘But you’d be wrong. Livius was a greedy fool – always was, ever since we were children. But I admit, I never thought he’d be so stupid as to throw his lot in with the Venatori and that _thing_.’

Her lip curled scornfully as she mentioned Corypheus.

‘Your brother wanted to end the world,’ Dorian pointed out coldly. ‘I wouldn’t call that stupidity. I’d call that insanity.’

‘Perhaps he was insane then,’ said Erimond. ‘Either way, he’s dead now and _still_ he manages to besmirch the family name from beyond the grave. Those of House Erimond are pariahs in the Imperium these days. Nobody wants to associate with us lest we all turn out to be mad, darkspawn worshipping cultists like my late, much unlamented brother.’

‘Tricky,’ said Dorian. ‘Mud sticks, as they say. If you don’t mind my asking though, how exactly does that translate to you coming all this way to pledge yourself to the Inquisition?’

‘What better way to clear our names?’ she said. ‘The Inquisition stood against Corypheus. I could not send a clearer message than to offer my support to it. And this is the opportune moment to do it. There is an uncertain mood in the Imperium at the moment.’

‘Uncertain?’ Dorian asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘How do you mean ‘uncertain’?’

‘Many people feel deeply unsettled by recent events. There is a certain… religious fervour in the south at the moment, is there not? Well, we’ve not been immune to it in the north either. The stories that are told about this Corypheus… What if there is some truth to the old tales of the seven Magisters who turned the Golden City black? You can imagine how people might react to such ideas.’

‘I can imagine,’ Dorian agreed.

‘People are worried. They begin to wonder what else might be true. There’s a rumour of a clampdown on the use of blood magic. Half-empty chantries suddenly find themselves full of the newly devout. Men and women stand in the Magisterium to praise Holy Andraste. There is even talk among some radicals that the Imperium should return to the White Divine.’

‘Has opinion really changed so much?’ Dorian asked, surprised. He’d had no idea that such sentiments were gaining traction in his homeland.

Erimond shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps people are just frightened and all this will soon pass and fade. The time to take advantage is _now_.’

‘The time to take advantage is now’ – those words struck a chord deep in Dorian’s heart. He still fervently wanted to see change come to Tevinter, for it to become the better, brighter place that he knew it could be. He wanted to be a part of that change, to help drive it forward.

Until now it had seemed all but impossible. But if what Erimond was saying was true, then perhaps something _could_ be done. If they struck while the iron was hot.

‘I understood that you yourself had once intended to return to Tevinter and campaign for change in the Imperium,’ said Erimond. She leaned forward slightly across her desk, eyes bright with some unknown emotion. ‘If that is still the case, there will never be a better time. Return with me when I leave Val Royeaux.’

Her request instantly poured water over Dorian’s renewed fire. Because that right there was the crux of the whole matter, wasn’t it? He would have to go back to Tevinter. He would have to leave the Inquisition, leave his friends, and – more unbearable than any of that – he would have to leave Trevelyan.

This knowledge had lingered treacherously in the back of Dorian’s mind for months. He’d tried not to think about it, preferring instead to draw out the elation of victory for as long as possible. It had been a very long time since he’d been so happy, it seemed pointless to sour it with premature thoughts of the future.

It would have been so much simpler if he could just abandon his desire to bring reform to Tevinter. To give it up as a hopeless pipe dream and settle down in the south. But he couldn’t. He loved his homeland, and in his heart of hearts he honestly believed that it could change for the better.

For people like Livius Erimond ‘better’ meant returning to the glory days of the Imperium, when all of Thedas was crushed under the boot of Tevinter. But Dorian knew those days were not coming back, and nor would he want them. Tevinter needed to let go of the dreams of its past, and embrace the world as it was now.

Dorian was no fool, he knew Juliana Erimond wasn’t here because she longed for reform, she was here because her old allies had dropped her like a hot potato and she was in dire need of new ones. Dorian and his reformist friends back in the Imperium would do nicely. But she was still a Magister, and still a member of a rich and noble – if disgraced – house. They could use her, whether she truly believed in the cause or not.

‘We’ll see,’ Dorian hedged, once he’d marshalled his thoughts. He put aside his half-drunk cup of tea and stood up. ‘Thank you for your hospitality Magister. I will, of course, convey your request for a meeting to the Inquisitor.’

Erimond nodded. ‘I sincerely hope there are no more attempts on the Herald’s life. But, well… no, perhaps best if I say nothing.’ She dropped her gaze coyly, making a great show of sipping at her tea.

‘What is it?’ demanded Dorian.

‘Only that, if I were you, I’d look much closer to home than Tevinter for those who might wish Inquisitor Trevelyan harm.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Dorian impatiently.

Juliana put down her tea and sat back in her chair, hands clasped genteelly in her lap. ‘They anointed a new White Divine yesterday, didn’t they?’ she said. ‘The living instrument of the Maker in this sinful world. But is she? I would suggest that there’s a rather more compelling candidate for that title at the moment, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘The Herald,’ Dorian said flatly.

‘Sent by Andraste herself,’ said Erimond thoughtfully. ‘You have to admit, it certainly has more… _romance_ than being elected by a gaggle of old women. When it comes down to it, who will the people truly look to as their spiritual leader? Only a short time ago there would have been no question, and yet now… Lord Trevelyan’s very existence is a threat to the Chantry’s influence. I’m sure that there are those in the cloisters who think that, so long as he draws breath, the position of the Divine will never be secure.’

It was a horrible thought that turned Dorian’s stomach. Unfortunately, it was also one that made an alarming amount of sense. Dorian knew full well that the Grand Clerics, for all their outward display of gentle piety, were not above ordering deaths if it helped to smooth their way.

‘Just a thought to consider,’ said Erimond lightly. ‘And I hope you will also consider my offer to return with me to Tevinter, Lord Pavus. There is a great deal we could accomplish together.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Dorian, deliberately noncommittal.

By the time he left the neighbourhood round the Night Gates the new day was well and truly underway. The streets were heaving with people. It looked as though it was going to be a beautiful day, but Dorian’s thoughts remained stubbornly dark and gloomy as he walked slowly back to the Maison Vaille.

When he did finally arrive back he found the house in uproar. There were a lot of guards standing purposefully around the place, weapons drawn, and a general sense of chaos in the air. The moment Dorian stepped into the main atrium he found himself immediately accosted by an uncharacteristically agitated Josephine.

‘Dorian!’ she said sharply, relief written large all over her face. ‘There you are!’ And then to Dorian’s surprise and amazement she grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into an embrace so tight he found it a little hard to breath.

‘What’s going on?’ Dorian demanded the moment she let him go. Something major had clearly happened. Nervous fear began to gnaw insistently at him.

‘Dorian!’ said Cullen’s voice loudly from behind him. Dorian turned, only to find himself hauled into yet another unexpected hug. This one involved a lot more armour and was considerably more uncomfortable.

At least Cullen let go a lot more quickly than Josephine had, looking rather embarrassed that he’d done it at all. Under normal circumstances Dorian wouldn’t have hesitated to tease him, but he was far too perturbed by the fact that he’d clearly missed something important while he’d been out.

‘Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?’ he said loudly.

‘We thought you’d been taken,’ said Josephine. ‘Nobody could find you anywhere.’

‘What? Why would you think I’d been taken?’ said Dorian, bewildered. ‘Besides, the guards on the door saw me go.’

‘They’re dead,’ said Cullen shortly.

‘What?’ said Dorian. The gnawing fear in his belly jumped up a notch. ‘How?’

‘Another assassin,’ said Cullen grimly.

The fear threatened to blossom into a full blown panic. ‘The Inquisitor…’ Dorian started.

‘He’s fine, Dorian,’ Josephine reassured him gently. ‘You should go to him. He’s upstairs, in the study. He thinks you’re missing.’

Dorian didn’t hesitate to go, hurrying up the elaborate staircase that dominated the main hall of the mansion. The study was little more than a room put aside for the Inquisitor to meet any visiting dignitaries in. Indeed it had seen far more use by Josephine than Trevelyan since the Inquisition had arrived in Val Royeaux.

Maxwell was inside the study, leaning heavily against a bookcase with a bleak expression on his face. He glanced over as Dorian came to the doorway, and seemed almost to collapse back against the books, as though some enormous and awful weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

‘Maker’s breath, _Dorian_ ,’ he said, pushing himself up off the shelves and striding forward. He put his arms around Dorian and pulled him forward into a crushing embrace, one than Dorian was more than happy to return.

‘Alive and well,’ Dorian said, murmuring into Trevelyan’s ear.

‘In Andraste’s name, where _were_ you?’ Trevelyan demanded, pulling back just far enough to look Dorian straight in the eye. He was very pale, and there were lines of anxious tension around his eyes and mouth. Finding Dorian vanished without explanation had obviously frightened him. Dorian regretted at once that he’d not woken him that morning to say he was going out.

‘Out on early morning business,’ Dorian said. ‘As the two sadly deceased guards could have told you.’ Trevelyan closed his eyes and nodded in weary relief. Dorian leaned forward and kissed him softly, wanting nothing more than to wipe that awful look off his face.

Trevelyan kissed him back, hands tightening their grip on Dorian’s shoulders. The kiss lasted for only a moment, before Trevelyan pushed him away and glanced awkwardly off to the side. Dorian followed his gaze, and realized with a start that they weren’t alone in the study.

Sitting – no, _lounging_ was the only word for it – in the chair behind the desk was an elf. He glanced appreciatively between the two of them, a rather lecherous smirk playing about his mouth.

‘Oh no, no, no,’ he said with a thick Antivan accent. ‘Please, do not stop on my account, I insist. Indeed, I was rather enjoying the show…’

‘Who exactly is this?’ said Dorian suspiciously, releasing Trevelyan at once. The elf smiled up at him like a cat that had not only gotten the cream, but also successfully mugged the dairy farmer.

‘My name is Zevran Arainai,’ he said with a little bow of his head. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’

‘He killed the assassin who broke in here this morning,’ Trevelyan said. ‘Followed her in and stopped her from doing whatever it was she came here to do. But then when nobody could find you we thought that perhaps there had been more of them, and that they’d somehow managed to take you without anyone knowing about it…’

‘Well they didn’t,’ said Dorian firmly. He looked down at the elf, sprawled out comfortably behind the desk like he owned the place. ‘And what were you doing sneaking in here yourself, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘The assassin who killed your guards was one of the Crows of Antiva,’ the elf – Zevran – explained. ‘I myself was once a Crow, until a little misunderstanding caused me to be expelled from the ranks. Since then I have dedicated myself to making life difficult for my former brothers and sisters.’

‘Yes, that’s all very nice, but what were you doing _here_ exactly?’

‘When my sources told me that a Crow had been dispatched to the house of the Inquisition in Val Royeaux, I felt honour bound to intervene.’

‘Oh really? Honour bound why precisely?’ There was something about this Zevran that Dorian disliked instinctively. He seemed entirely too self-satisfied and cocksure.

‘I don’t know if His Worship recalls,’ said Zevran. ‘But the Inquisition helped me out of a tight spot in Hercinia some while ago. Do you recall that business with Lord Enzo, Inquisitor? You had your men smuggle me out of the Free Marches. For which I am _exceedingly_ grateful.’ Zevran gave Trevelyan a long, unabashedly licentious look for which Dorian didn’t care at all.

‘He’s an old friend of Leliana’s,’ said Trevelyan, apparently oblivious to the lecherous stare being directed his way. ‘She’s already sent word to corroborate his story.’

‘It is good to have friends in high places, is it not?’ said Zevran.

‘This assassin,’ said Dorian. ‘What was her objective? Who was she here to kill?’

Zevran shrugged. ‘That I do not know. All I was told was that her target was in this house. And that whoever took out the contract did so in Val Royeaux.’

‘You’re sure?’ said Trevelyan.

‘My information said that the Crows were contacted via their outpost here in the city. Whoever it was who sent that assassin, they’re in Val Royeaux.’

‘Well that hardly narrows it down does it?’ Dorian groused.

Zevran stood up and offered Trevelyan a short but very theatrical bow. ‘Allow me to offer my services to you, Your Worship. I assure you, nobody knows the methods of the Crows better than myself. Permit me to serve as your bodyguard while you remain in the city. I would consider it a religious service.’

Trevelyan laughed softly. ‘A religious service?’ he said.

‘You are Andraste’s Herald, are you not?’ said Zevran.

‘There’s no evidence it’s even me these assassins are after.’

‘I would never dream of slandering Your Worship’s character,’ said Zevran smoothly. ‘But I was led to believe that you have a rather impressively long list of enemies…?’

‘Exactly,’ said Dorian.

‘Unfortunately a great many of my closest friends and advisors share the same talent for upsetting people,’ said Trevelyan, with a pointed look in Dorian’s direction.

‘Ah,’ said Zevran. He smiled winningly. ‘Then I will make my vigilance more general.’

‘In which case I accept your generous offer,’ said Trevelyan. ‘Ask Josephine to find you a room somewhere. She’ll provide you with anything you need.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ Dorian hissed to Trevelyan. He did not relish the idea of this annoying elf being around any longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘Why not?’ said Trevelyan quietly with a slight shrug. ‘He’s already proved his skill. He could be useful to us.’

‘I will go and see the lovely Lady Montilyet at once,’ said Zevran, swaggering out from behind the desk. He smiled charmingly, and glanced between the two of them. ‘Please do continue your earlier… ah, _conversation_.’

With that he departed, leaving Dorian to glare at his back and shut the study door loudly behind him.

‘I don’t like him,’ he announced.

‘I did notice,’ said Maxwell. He walked around the desk and slumped down heavily into the chair that their unwelcome guest had just vacated.

‘Dorian, where exactly _were_ you this morning?’ he asked, propping his elbows up on the desk and peering upwards at Dorian over clasped hands.

‘I told you, I had business to attend to,’ Dorian said vaguely.

‘Business? Before dawn? And you thought you’d just sneak out without telling anyone, despite one attempt on your life already?’

‘The guards had seen me go! How was I to know something was going to happen to them?’

‘And where was it that you went?’ said Trevelyan sharply, unwilling to be diverted from his first question.

In light of what had happened with the Crow assassin, Dorian knew that his decision to deal with Magister Erimond alone looked less like practical initiative, and more like pure foolishness. Unfortunately, there was nothing for it. He was going to have to confess all.

Predictably, once he’d heard the whole story, Trevelyan did not take it well.

‘What were you _thinking_?’ he demanded angrily, once Dorian had finished detailing the events of early that morning.

‘I was thinking that perhaps I could sort this mess out quickly and quietly,’ said Dorian. ‘No need to bother anyone else. Was that really so awful of me?’

‘Awful? No. Stupid and irresponsible? Yes,’ Trevelyan shot back at once.

‘Stupid?’ said Dorian, offended. ‘How pray tell was it _stupid_? I discovered her intentions, uncovered valuable information, and potentially secured us an influential ally! Hardly an unsuccessful outing.’

‘It was still a pointless risk. You’re just lucky she _wasn’t_ behind these assassination attempts. Then she’d have had you right where she wanted you. Alone and outnumbered!’

‘I fail to see how it was quite so risky as all that. One mage and a scant handful of her lackeys. Nothing I couldn’t handle.’

‘You walked into a Magister’s stronghold alone, with nobody to back you up, and without even telling anybody where you were going.’

‘You forget,’ said Dorian coldly. ‘We don’t all consider the word ‘Magister’ to be synonymous with ‘dangerous maleficar’.

‘Have you forgotten who her brother was and what he did?’ said Trevelyan. He stood, leaning forward with his hands braced on the desk to glare at Dorian. ‘You knew nothing about her.’

‘Well you know nothing about that elf, and yet you’ve just agreed to shelter him under your roof and give him free rein of the house!’

‘He offered his services!’

‘He wanted to offer you a damn sight more than that, I’m sure,’ said Dorian darkly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Trevelyan huffed.

They stared angrily at each other for a long moment. It was Trevelyan who looked away first. He hunched his shoulders and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

‘I don’t have the energy for this right now Dorian,’ he said at last.

Looking back, Dorian should have dropped the matter there and then. A simple soothing word or gesture, and the argument would have been over. Unfortunately, he simply couldn’t help himself. He felt quite aggrieved and hard done by – he hadn’t been harmed, and it was hardly his fault that others had overreacted to finding him absent. And yet here he was, being berated for it.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said bitingly. ‘Is my presence inconveniencing you? I _do_ apologise. Although as I recall it was in fact _you_ who began this absurd argument about my – frankly, perfectly legitimate – decisions this morning.’

‘I was worried!’ Maxwell protested.

‘I am not a child,’ Dorian snapped. ‘I do not require your permission to go where I please or see who I please, Inquisitor.’

‘I never said you did.’

‘Oh, didn’t you? I have a life of my own outside of your damned Inquisition, and I will not account for my every action to you or to anybody else! Believe it or not, I am quite capable of looking after myself without you fussing over me like a mother hen!’

A horrible, tense silence followed this outburst. Trevelyan dropped his gaze to the desk, unwilling – or perhaps unable – to look Dorian in the eye.

‘Fine,’ he said at last, wearily. ‘Do what you want.’

Still refusing to look at Dorian, he marched out of the study, slamming the door behind him. Dorian flinched as the loud bang echoed round the small room.

He stood silently for a moment, while a horrible sick sensation slowly pooled in his stomach. He sat down on the edge of the desk.

‘Well done Dorian, you blighted fool,’ he muttered to himself. They’d never really fought before, not like that. Oh, they’d disagreed, certainly. Disagreed intensely even. But never hurled barbs at each other like that, never spoken with intent to hurt.

Although, looking back over it, it had mostly been Dorian – the eternal self-saboteur – who’d made certain to hit close to the bone. Back in the Imperium he’d prided himself on his ability to unravel an opponent with a cutting remark. He was very good at it – it came easily. Perhaps too easily.

With a wince he recalled the expression on Maxwell’s face when Dorian had made the jab about not needing to be fussed over. He’d been hurt, even if he’d done his absolute damnedest to hide the fact from Dorian.

The truth was, that if their circumstances had been reversed and it had been Trevelyan who’d marched off that morning into a potential enemy lair, then Dorian knew that he personally would have had a fit.

But he had always chafed against restrictions on his behaviour. All his young life his parents had tried to control where he went and who he saw. Dorian had raged against it, taking delight in breaking each and every one of their stupid little rules. His father’s explosions of temper after Dorian had done something particularly wild had been something he’d savoured, each and every one a trophy in his constant battle to be his own man.

But Maxwell Trevelyan was not Halward Pavus, and Dorian was no longer a rebellious adolescent with an excessively inflated sense of his own invulnerability. What he’d said had been unfair, and probably warranted an apology. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to swallow his pride and go after Trevelyan, at least not yet. Perhaps some time to cool off was in order.


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian slipped out of the study as quietly as he could, only to come face to face with Sera. She was perched on the ornate railing that ran around the edge of the mansion’s upper landing, one leg dangling precariously over the side. She crossed her arms when she saw Dorian, and shot him a distinctly hostile glare.

‘You’re back then,’ he said, and then cursed himself for stating the obvious.

‘Yeah,’ she said, continuing to glare. ‘Been sorting out some problems. Some nasty little mage types down by the docks, making trouble. Saw them off I did. Not as tough as they think they are, _mages_.’

It suddenly occurred to Dorian that she’d probably overheard every word of his fight with Trevelyan. They’d certainly been loud enough. Sera liked Trevelyan, was far closer to him than any other member of the Inquisition. Dorian didn’t pretend to understand what the two of them had in common – Trevelyan had mentioned something vague once about baked goods.

‘Right,’ Dorian stated flatly, unwilling to be drawn into a bickering match. ‘Well I’m going out. If anyone wants me, I’ll be at the White Spire.’

He wound up spending almost the entire remainder of the day at the old Circle tower. It wasn’t that he was avoiding anyone, or at least that was what he told himself. He was just allowing time for the dust to settle.

But try as he might, Dorian struggled to get his mind off the fight. The reality was that he had little experience with such things. His other… liaisons rarely lasted long enough to make it to a first fight, let alone a reconciliation. Dorian’s breadth of sexual experience might have been significant, but his understanding of real intimacy was scant to say the least.

Oh he had yearned and adored from afar when he’d been younger and sillier, but as he’d grown older and more cynical he’d turned away from romance in favour of more fleeting, immediate pleasures. He’d certainly never loved anyone like he loved Maxwell Trevelyan.

The intensity of the feeling still alarmed him some nights, lying awake and listening to the man breathing quietly next to him. To be loved in return had been just as unnerving. It felt like he was stumbling around in the dark sometimes. He wondered if Maxwell felt the same, or if he really was as self-assured as he always appeared.

‘Back again Messere?’ said a cheerful voice, jolting him from his brooding. He looked up from the grimoire he’d been staring blankly at to see the young librarian he’d spoken to briefly on his first visit to the Spire.

‘Evidently,’ Dorian said.

The young mage shuffled awkwardly. He had longish, rather stringy hair, messily tied back away from his face, and robes that were too big for him. Hand-me-downs no doubt, from some older mage who’d outgrown them.

‘After you left last time, someone told me you were a Magister,’ said the boy, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Is that true?’

‘No,’ said Dorian with a frustrated sigh. How many times did these southern idiots need the distinction explained to them? ‘Not every mage from Tevinter is a member of the Magisterium. Far from it.’

‘Oh,’ said the boy. He looked rather disappointed for a moment, before suddenly perking up. ‘But you _are_ from Tevinter?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Dorian rather irritably. ‘I am from Tevinter.’ The way the boy was gawping at him was beginning to grate on his nerves, like he was some exhibit in a museum – the scary mage from Tevinter, who might start spewing blood magic onto the carpets at any moment.

‘What’s it like there?’ said the young mage, eyes glittering with barely suppressed curiosity.

‘Look,’ Dorian said testily. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Greville,’ said the boy at once. He was depressingly upbeat, in the exuberant way that only the very young ever were.

‘Well then Greville,’ said Dorian. ‘As fascinating and handsome as I am, I’m sure there’s plenty of books in this library about the Imperium. Why not read one of them?’

‘They all say the same things,’ complained Greville. ‘About magic serving man and never ruling him, and how there’s blood magic everywhere and about how you whip slaves in the streets. I want to know the _truth_.’

A part of Dorian wanted to shoo the lad away so he could go back to his book in peace – or at least go back to his melancholy brooding in peace. But another part of him – the part of him that loved nothing more than talking about himself – couldn’t resist the temptation to correct some of this Greville’s misconceptions about Dorian’s homeland. Besides, the young man’s apparently honest interest in Tevinter was oddly heartening.

‘What exactly would you like to know?’ he found himself saying.

Surprisingly, the gangly Greville made for a good audience. He listened with rapt fascination as Dorian outlined the basics of life in the Imperium. He covered the workings of the Magisterium, the different social classes, and the role of the Imperial Chantry and its Black Divine. Greville listened in attentive silence, gratifyingly engrossed. Dorian found himself warming to the boy. He _had_ always enjoyed a good audience.

Despite himself, Dorian was careful not to gloss over any of the gory details. He made sure to mention the slavery, the pointless war on Seheron, and, of course, the blood magic. It all reminded him of the conversations he used to have with Trevelyan, holed up together in the library at Skyhold.

‘I want to visit Minrathous one day,’ said Greville when Dorian was finished talking. ‘I want to see it all for myself. To see the Arcanist’s Hall! Imagine the books they have there…’

‘You have some fairly impressive books of your own here,’ Dorian remarked, glancing round at the heaving shelves of the library.

‘Perhaps there could be some kind of an exchange?’ said Greville brightly. ‘A meeting of the minds from the north and south of Thedas! We could share the books.’

‘Ye-es, sounds marvellous…’ said Dorian insincerely. Sounded doomed to failure more like. Greville and those like him would be eaten alive by the Imperium. Not to mention that Tevinter would never stoop to admit that there might be something to be learned from their backwards southern brethren.

Still, it was a nice – if hopelessly naïve – idea. Dorian hoped that one day something of its kind might be possible. If Tevinter could put aside its precious pride for long enough, and the South all their old prejudices.

Indeed, if Dorian was back in Tevinter then it was exactly the kind of thing he might strive towards. No point going through the Magisterium to make it official, they’d only sneer and turn him down flat. Best to go around them. Perhaps something low-key between the younger mages on each side, those who hadn’t yet had their minds closed off completely to the possibilities.

The idea brought a smile to Dorian’s face. Orlesians in the Arcanist’s Hall, and Tevinters in the White Spire. My, my, the world might come to an end. Still, the thought was beguiling…

He felt a sudden pang in his heart. He firmly pushed it to one side. He’d come to the White Spire for a distraction, and all he’d done so far was wallow in his own gloomy thoughts. The young Greville’s curiosity sated, Dorian was left alone to try and focus on his book. He forced himself to concentrate, and managed to make some interesting discoveries about research into old elven enchantments during the Storm Age.

Once again he stayed in the library until it was time to lock the gates. Greville showed him personally to the door, still chattering enthusiastically. Dorian tried to tune him out. He was absolutely famished, and in truth his mind was elsewhere.

He procrastinated terribly on his way back to the Maison Vaille. He stopped for a bite to eat at a fashionable café, shamelessly namedropping his friends to get himself a good table. Then he took a turn around some public gardens, lit with blazing torches and full of the Orlesian merchant classes enjoying the fresh air and a light stroll before returning home to retire for the night.

When Dorian did finally arrive back, the Maison was quiet. There seemed to be nobody about, except for the guards and Josephine, who he found in one of the lavish little sitting rooms. She was perched neatly on a very beautiful but very uncomfortable looking settee, reading her correspondence.

‘Where is he?’ Dorian asked without preamble. He didn’t need to name names, they both knew who he was talking about.

‘In his room,’ said Josephine, folding away the letter she was reading. ‘He retired early. Said he had a headache.’

‘Ah. Well, in that case perhaps I should…’

‘Dorian,’ Josephine interrupted him firmly. ‘I don’t pretend to be any great authority in matters of the heart, and I’m not sure what exactly happened between the two of you earlier. But you should not leave this to fester. You are both my friends, I would not see you make yourselves needlessly unhappy through sheer stubbornness.’

‘Unhappy?’ said Dorian with forced jovialness. ‘Do I really seem unhappy to you? I’m the very life of the party, as always.’

‘I know you better than you think, Dorian,’ said Josephine. ‘We all do. And whatever front _you_ may wish to put on, I assure you the Inquisitor has made no secret this afternoon of his foul mood.’

‘I’m not so sure that seeing me will make his mood any better,’ Dorian admitted.

‘You should try anyway,’ Josephine insisted. ‘For the sake of the Inquisition’s diplomatic connections, if nothing else.’ She smiled at him, and then unfolded her letter and resumed reading it.

Sensing that he’d been ever-so-politely dismissed, Dorian decided it was probably time to face the music. Apologies were not his forte. They involved a certain degree of humility - which was also not Dorian’s forte.

He knocked gently on the door to Trevelyan’s room, not waiting for a reply before opening it and quietly slipping inside. There were a few candles still lit, left to burn down. They cast a faint golden glow, just enough to see by. The doors to the balcony were open, letting in the fresh air. Dorian frowned. Surely they ought to be shut? How easily someone might sneak in through them, raising no alarm at all.

Trevelyan was lying in the bed, slumped over on his front, face turned away from the door. The sheets were wrapped haphazardly around him, as though he’d tossed and turned a lot before finally settling.

‘It’s only me,’ said Dorian quietly, lest the man think that there was another assassin creeping into his bedroom. In the bed Maxwell didn’t stir. Dorian might have been fooled into thinking he was fast asleep, but he was breathing too deeply for that.

Dorian perched on the edge of the bed. He picked awkwardly at the sheets, searching hopelessly for the right words.

‘I’m an ass,’ he finally settled on.

‘Yes you are,’ mumbled Trevelyan, mostly into his pillow. He still didn’t turn to look as Dorian.

Dorian reached out tentatively and placed a hand on Trevelyan’s back. The skin there was smooth, and tinged golden by the flickering light of the candles. When Trevelyan didn’t flinch or pull away, Dorian grew bolder, and dropped a quick, soft kiss to the space between his shoulder blades.

That did the trick. Trevelyan sighed, and then rolled over onto his back so he could look up at Dorian. He looked rather tetchy still, and Dorian quickly ducked his head and kissed him before he could say anything.

‘I’m not very good at saying sorry,’ Dorian admitted when they broke apart. Frankly he would have much preferred to just crawl on top of Maxwell, and set about working off their mutual frustration with each other in another, far more enjoyable way. Unfortunately, he knew that there was no way Trevelyan was going to let him. He would insist on talking about it, no matter how discomforting Dorian found such a thing to be. Best just to get it over with.

‘I said things I didn’t mean earlier,’ Dorian said hesitantly. He wrapped his fingers loosely around Trevelyan’s wrist. Somehow this was easier if they were touching each other, instead of awkwardly spaced apart. ‘You don’t interfere with my life. Alright, well, perhaps you do, but I really don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t anymore. I…’

He trailed off, the words sticking painfully in his throat. I love you. _I love you_. He didn’t know why he found it so impossible to say. If wasn’t as though it wasn’t true. Dorian was so deeply in love with Maxwell Trevelyan that it frightened him. All his life he’d striven towards self-reliance – to have his personal happiness so dependent on another person was worrying, to say the least.

‘… I’m sorry,’ Dorian finished lamely instead.

There was a short pause, and then Trevelyan sighed. ‘You’re ridiculous,’ he said, and then he reached up and took Dorian by the front of his robes, pulling him down for another kiss.

Things were progressing _very_ nicely, when Dorian suddenly found himself sprawled out flat on his back, with Trevelyan sitting on top of him. He tried to wriggle free, but found himself pinned hopelessly in place. It wouldn’t have been so bad – might have been quite pleasant actually – if Trevelyan hadn’t just staying _sitting_ there, making no effort to touch Dorian at _all_.

‘No more stupid risks,’ Trevelyan said firmly, fixing Dorian with a serious look.

Dorian squirmed under him, and then conceded final defeat, flopping back onto the bed. ‘Only if you can promise the same’ he replied.

Trevelyan hesitated. ‘Exactly,’ Dorian said at once. ‘You can’t make that promise amatus, and neither can I. We are both of us stupid, risky people. Best to just accept it, yes?’

Trevelyan huffed irritably, and leaned down to kiss him again. The moment the bulk of his weight shifted forward, Dorian pounced. He grabbed Trevelyan round the waist and rolled them over so that they collapsed together in a messy tangle of limbs, each half-heartedly tussling with the other. Trevelyan laughed breathlessly, and Dorian savoured the sound until he managed to get the man just about where he wanted him, and then kissed him once more.

…

Dorian woke the next morning feeling loose-limbed and thoroughly contented. The new day’s sun was warm and bright where it was coming in through the windows. He stretched out, enjoying the way his joints popped and his muscles ached pleasantly.

Trevelyan was still fast asleep next to him. He was disconcertingly still whilst sleeping, his breathing so shallow that you could be forgiven for thinking he wasn’t breathing at all sometimes. He’d barely moved at all during the night. This was in marked contrast to Dorian, who knew himself to be a very restless sleeper, forever tossing and turning.

With nobody about to see, Dorian took the opportunity to stare openly at Maxwell. He really was rather lovely. There were scars, but they were shallow and faint. The only real disfigurement was the line scored deeply into the palm of his hand, currently lying upturned on the mattress.

Gently, careful not to wake its owner, Dorian took the hand in his own. He ran his fingers along the mark, feeling the slight jolt of power that ran up his arm as he did so. It was absolutely fascinating. He could sense it, if he tried hard enough. Just the slightest disruption of the Veil – not enough to tear it, just enough to warp it out of shape a little, to make it more malleable.

He knew mages back in Tevinter who would have quite literally killed to get their hands on the Anchor. They would stab each other in the back without hesitation in order to study it, to unlock its secrets. Dorian was deeply thankful for the fortress of the Inquisition that stood between them and Trevelyan.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘Hold on a minute!’ Dorian called out. Next to him Trevelyan started suddenly awake.

Dorian picked his clothes up off the floor, where they’d been thrown in haste last night. He pulled them on as best he could, and went to answer the door.

It was Cullen on the other side. He took one look at Dorian’s state of debauched dishevelment and immediately – bless his innocent little heart – blushed a little and pointedly looked away.

‘I was uh… hoping to speak to the Inquisitor?’ he muttered awkwardly.

‘He’s not quite presentable at the moment,’ said Dorian, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe. Watching Cullen squirm was most amusing. ‘Can I take a message, or is this of vital importance?’

‘Just tell him we’ve received a request from the Most Holy,’ said Cullen. ‘She wants to see the Lord Inquisitor this morning. We’ll have to leave soon if we’re to make it on time.’

‘Leliana wants to see me?’ said Trevelyan, coming to the doorway. He’d managed to pull on most of his clothes, but his shirt was only half fastened and hanging wide open at the neck. Dorian rather openly admired the view – partly because it _was_ worth seeing, but mostly to further embarrass Cullen.

‘What does she want?’ Trevelyan asked Cullen.

‘I don’t know,’ Cullen admitted. ‘The message only arrived here five minutes ago.’

‘We’ll leave in ten minutes,’ said Trevelyan, to Dorian’s utter despair. How he was supposed to make himself presentable to Orlesian society in a mere ten minutes was beyond him.

He managed it somehow, even if he wasn’t entirely satisfied with the state of his hair by the time they departed the Maison Vaille. They could have arrived much faster if they’d made use of the carriage that the Empress had lent the Inquisition along with the house, but Trevelyan hated it, and as usual he insisted on tramping about on foot instead.

He was, at least, both armed and in armour as they walked through the streets of Val Royeaux. As were they all in fact. It would be a foolish and suicidal assassin indeed who would attack the three of them – Maxwell, Dorian and Cullen – as they made the short journey from the Maison Vaille to the Grand Cathedral.

A few startled heads turned as they went, but thankfully they passed largely unbothered through the crowds. When they arrived at the Cathedral they were ushered in through a side entrance by a Revered Mother. She led them down a series of airy corridors before finally showing them into a private audience chamber.

It was richly decorated, the walls covered in beautiful murals depicting scenes from the life of Andraste and her closest followers. The floor was polished marble, and even the ceiling was impressive, patterned in gilt and other finery.

There was a large chair in the middle of the room, ornately carved and upholstered in silk. Sitting next to this, on a rather more ordinary piece of furniture, was Leliana. She was wearing the plain, comfortable robes of a lay sister, rather than the elaborate vestments of the Divine.

Josephine was already there. They were both smiling, relaxed, and Dorian suspected they’d been indulging in fond reminiscences rather than discussing important matters of state.

‘My friends,’ Leliana exclaimed as they entered, rising to greet them. ‘It is so good to see you.’

‘Leliana,’ said Trevelyan warmly. ‘Or should I call you Divine Victoria now?’ he teased. ‘Most Holy?’

She laughed. ‘It’s just Leliana, please. After everything we have all been through together, it seems silly to stand on ceremony, no?’

They were all seated, and a cleric brought in some refreshments. When they were alone again, Leliana sat back in her chair, expression suddenly serious.

‘I heard about the assassination attempts,’ she said. ‘My spies have uncovered nothing?’

‘Nothing yet,’ said Josephine with a shake of the head. ‘They are still investigating.’

‘Is there anybody who _hasn’t_ heard about it?’ said Dorian.

‘I suspect not,’ said Leliana. ‘In fact I heard Lord Merville discussing the matter quite openly at the evening service yesterday.’

‘Could this be a problem?’ said Trevelyan. ‘We don’t want the Inquisition to look vulnerable.’

Leliana shook her head. ‘This is Orlais,’ she said. ‘Political assassination is all part of the Game. I know of some lord and ladies who are offended if there is not at least one attempt on their life every year. All that matters is that it failed.’

‘We should be thinking about potential suspects,’ said Cullen. ‘Who has reason to move against the Inquisition?’

‘Where to begin?’ said Leliana plainly. ‘The list is endless.’

‘And it includes the Chantry,’ said Dorian sharply. The idea had been bothering him ever since Juliana Erimond had voiced it. ‘What’s the Inquisition to them? Competition. They had the Seekers and the Templers under their thumb – or at least they _thought_ they did – but who do they have now? They don’t control the armies of the faithful anymore. _You_ do.’ He nodded at Trevelyan. ‘I don’t imagine that’s gone down too well in some quarters.’

He’d half expected Leliana to leap angrily to the defence of her new flock, but instead she simply settled back in her chair and nodded thoughtfully.

‘I cannot say that the idea that one of the Grand Clerics is behind this hadn’t occurred to me,’ she said quietly. ‘Some of them are pious, devout women who wouldn’t harm a fly. But others are shrewd politicians who, I am afraid to say, do not treat life with the reverence that the Maker intended.’

‘You cannot seriously be suggesting that one of the Grand Clerics is behind this?’ said Cullen.

‘I am not suggesting anything,’ Leliana said. ‘I am simply not discounting any possibilities. I will order some of my most trusted sisters to investigate this matter. Unfortunately I have yet to choose a Right or Left hand to do such work for me – but besides, you are all my friends. No, I will oversee this personally.’

‘Thank you Leliana,’ said Trevelyan sincerely. ‘We appreciate all the help we can get. How have you been? It’s been a pretty big few days.’

‘Different, to put it mildly,’ Leliana said, throwing her hands up in the air. ‘I am being waited on hand and foot. I cannot even get myself a cup of water without someone falling over themselves to present it to me in a silver chalice. I will be pleased when all this pomp and ceremony is over.’

‘I know how you feel,’ said Trevelyan ruefully.

‘I should enjoy it while it lasts really,’ said Leliana with a sigh. ‘At least for now we have peace and unity among the ranks of the Chantry. I’m not so sure they’ll be too pleased with some of the changes I wish to make when the real work begins.’

‘Are they ever pleased with anything?’ Dorian said waspishly.

‘I do wonder sometimes,’ said Leliana. ‘But I must make allowances – we all must make allowances. The Chantry has barely changed since the time of Kordillus Drakon. Where I and others might see renewal and rebirth, there are many who will simply see the throwing aside of much that they have held dear.’

‘There’s a fine line between valuable tradition and outdated nonsense,’ said Trevelyan.

‘Precisely,’ agreed Leliana. ‘The two are often hard to tell apart, but tell them apart we must. I am glad we agree on this.’

Dorian would have thought that the office of Divine - and all the pressures and expectations that came with it - might have weighed Leliana down. Instead she was somehow lighter than he remembered her being at Skyhold. She seemed peaceful – truly peaceful, not merely in possession of a rather frightening degree of self-control.

There was a soft knock at the door. A moment later a lay brother opened it, peering into the room with his head deferentially bowed.

‘My humblest apologies for the interruption Most Holy, Your Worship… The Antivan delegation has arrived early. I could ask them to wait…?’

‘No, no,’ said Leliana with a wave of her hand. ‘I will see them shortly.’

‘I’m afraid duty calls,’ she said, once the lay brother had departed with another little bow. ‘I must dress quickly. The robes are so uncomfortable. I don’t know how Justinia managed to stand it.’

They said their goodbyes and were about to depart, when Leliana called out. ‘Oh, Inquisitor,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, I meant to ask you about the parade.’

Trevelyan smothered a pained expression with admirable swiftness. For the last day of the festivities, there was to be a large – and knowing the Orlesians, utterly extravagant – parade through the streets of Val Royeaux. It was not a traditional part of the ceremonies surrounding the ascension of a new Divine, but was a new addition, suggested by the Empress herself. Apparently it was going to be magnificent. It ought to be- Dorian had heard that the Crown was spending a fortune on it.

‘I had hoped that you would walk alongside me,’ Leliana continued. ‘A symbol of solidarity between the Chantry and the Inquisition? Both of us walking together into the future, side by side? I believe it would comfort the people to see it.’

‘I thought the Divine rode in a gilt carriage?’ Dorian said.

‘I will walk,’ said Leliana firmly, in a manner that suggested she’d already had to put her foot down on this matter a number of times. ‘I am a servant of the Maker, and he gave me two legs so I shall use them. How is the Chantry supposed to reach out to the people if we constantly place ourselves above them?’

‘I would be honoured to walk alongside you,’ said Trevelyan without hesitation.

‘If you walk with her, you’ll be surrounded by Grand Clerics you know,’ whispered Dorian to Maxwell as they left, ushered out by the same Revered Mother who’d shown them in. ‘Just you, all alone with all those little old ladies. Half of who would just _love_ to see you trampled by a herd of charging brontos.’

‘I defeated an ancient darkspawn magister who’d ripped an enormous hole in the sky,’ murmured Trevelyan quietly. ‘I think I can probably defend myself against a group of old women.’

‘Just don’t eat or drink anything they give you, that’s all I’m saying.’

Their little group dispersed as they left the Grand Cathedral. Josephine departed back to the Maison Vaille, with a short detour to visit an old friend – some Comte that Dorian had never heard of. Cullen went off to meet with Cassandra.

That left Dorian and Trevelyan to wander the streets of Val Royeaux together.

‘She’s got an ulterior motive you know,’ said Dorian, as they strolled together along the grand boulevard. Enormous marble statues of Andraste loomed over them. ‘She says it’s all about solidarity between the Chantry and the Inquisition, but it won’t do her any harm to be seen walking alongside the Herald of Andraste.’

‘It might,’ said Trevelyan mildly. ‘I’m sure there are still plenty of people out there who think I’m a mad heretic.’

‘Not many now,’ said Dorian. ‘Lots of people really believe - and I mean really _believe_ – that Andraste sent you to save us all. That you’re her representative in this imperfect world of ours. And if _you_ speak for Andraste, where does that leave the Divine?’

‘I don’t speak for Andraste,’ said Trevelyan. The crowds were increasing as they drew closer to the Summer Bazaar, and they had to navigate their way around a cluster of gossipers idling in the middle of the street. 

‘Nevertheless,’ said Dorian. ‘Leliana has more to gain from this parade business than you.’

‘So?’ said Trevelyan. ‘She’s my friend. If walking alongside her during some ridiculous parade helps her, then why wouldn’t I do it?’

‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t,’ insisted Dorian. ‘I’m just saying… Maker, I don’t know what I’m saying.’

They wandered further into the Bazaar. Trevelyan took Dorian by the elbow, and began gently steering him off to one side.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Dorian. He could smell something absolutely delicious nearby, which reminded him that he hadn’t had any breakfast.

‘To get something to eat,’ said Trevelyan. ‘I’m starving. Come on.’

He led Dorian to a little terraced café overlooking the stalls and shops of the Bazaar. The tables were half full of people, some in masks and some not. Dorian and Maxwell were led to a quiet little table in the corner, with a view that took in the street outside nicely.

‘I’ll be glad to go home after all this,’ said Trevelyan once their food had arrived. Despite his claim to be starving, he picked listlessly at the fussy little pastry on his plate.

‘I would have thought you’d be quite comfortable in Val Royeaux,’ remarked Dorian. ‘After all, you grew up in a city, didn’t you?’

‘Believe me, there’s a world of difference between this and Ostwick,’ said Trevelyan. ‘I understand the rules, and I know how to play the game - but it just never _stops_ here. It’s tiring, everyone watching you all the time and never being able to drop your guard.’

‘I should hope you can drop your guard around _me_ ,’ Dorian said, arching an eyebrow suggestively.

Trevelyan laughed and knocked his foot against Dorian’s under the table. ‘I think I dropped my guard fairly completely last night, didn’t I?’

They ate their food and talked about things that had nothing to do with Val Royeaux or Orlesian politics. Dorian told an amusing tale of his misspent youth - one incident in particular that had caused his father to offer a handsome bribe to witnesses if they swore never speak of it again. Trevelyan countered with a story of an ill-advised hunting trip with his elder siblings. It culminated in all of Bann Trevelyan’s children – filthy with mud, soaking wet, and highly embarrassed - traipsing back home into the city long past sunset, minus their horses and most of their supplies.

At first nobody paid them any mind as they sat there talking. But after a while Dorian began to sense a shifting of the atmosphere inside the little café. People were turning to look at them. Patrons whispered to their neighbours in low voices, glancing surreptitiously at the little table in the corner.

‘Time to leave I think,’ Dorian muttered. As amusing as watching Trevelyan being asked to bless things was, it did tend to rather cause a fuss.

‘I need to go back to the Maison Vaille anyway,’ said Trevelyan as they made a hasty retreat back into the crowded street. ‘I’m expecting a visitor at midday.’

‘Yet another noble come to fawn and flatter no doubt,’ said Dorian. ‘Try not to let it go to your head.’

‘It is a noble,’ Trevelyan admitted. ‘Of a sorts at least. But I doubt I’m going to get much fawning or flattery. It’s Lady Erimond.’

‘Lady Erimond?’ said Dorian, faintly surprised. ‘You’ve decided to accept her offer of support then?’

‘I’m going to _consider_ it. I’m finding it hard to believe we could trust her.’

‘Because she’s from Tevinter?’ Dorian said sharply.

‘Because she’s the sister of Livius Erimond,’ Trevelyan shot back pointedly.

When they returned to the Maison, Dorian retreated upstairs. All this talk of Tevinter and reform had reminded him that it had been a long time since he’d sent any letters to his old friends in the Imperium. How long, precisely? He’d certainly sent a handful of correspondence after joining the Inquisition, but it had gotten less and less until…

Since he’d fallen in love with Maxwell, that was it, he realised with a jolt. Since then he hadn’t sent a single letter back to Tevinter. Without even realising it he’d allowed his connections to the Imperium to falter. Once he would have known every detail of the political manoeuvrings within the Magisterium. Now he knew nothing about it. He hadn’t even known about House Erimonds fall from grace. He hadn’t even known Juliana Erimond _existed_.

He watched from the window as Erimond arrived. She was plainly trying to appear anonymous, to blend in seamlessly with the Orlesian masses. But she couldn’t quite manage it. For all she’d dressed herself like an average Orlesian of the merchant class – a fine dress, but not _too_ fine, and a plain white mask – she still carried herself like a Magister. Head held proudly upwards, and without even a sparing glance for the guards she swept past on her way in.

Dorian sat down and tried to write some letters to his old contacts. It was a frustrating business. He stopped and started several times, screwing up the papers and flinging them into the corner. He had no idea what to say, which was very uncharacteristic. Normally he had no trouble at all in waxing lyrical to any and every available audience.

He finally gave up and decided to go and find something better to do. He went downstairs, and without warning ran into Juliana Erimond.

She was pulling on a pair of pale velvet gloves. She’d taken her mask off, and smiled genteelly – but still coldly – at Dorian as he approached.

‘Ah, Lord Pavus,’ she said. ‘I was hoping to meet you while I was here.’

‘Well here I am,’ said Dorian. ‘How did your meeting with the Inquisitor go?’

‘Promisingly,’ said Erimond. ‘We shall see if we can do business together, the Inquisition and House Erimond. I certainly hope so, there’s much to be gained – for us both.’

Rather more for her, thought Dorian privately. Out loud he said: ‘Well, best of luck with that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really have to be…’

‘Would you join me for dinner tomorrow evening?’ Erimond interrupted him smoothly. ‘There’s a great deal I would like to discuss with you. I have some ideas I would like your informed opinion on.’

‘Ideas?’ said Dorian. ‘What kind of ideas?’

‘For reform in Tevinter. Erimond might not be a popular name in the Imperium right now, but we are still an old family. I have useful contacts, and know a great many members of the Magisterium personally.’

Dorian hesitated. On the one hand, he found this woman rather off-putting and did not at all relish the idea of spending an evening dining in that horrible little hovel of hers. On the other, thoughts of the Imperium had been weighing ever more on his mind these past few days. He felt a growing sense of guilt over the cause he had abandoned. Perhaps dining with Juliana Erimond would put those anxieties at rest.

Or perhaps it would inflame them still further. 

‘Alright then,’ said Dorian. ‘Dinner tomorrow it is.’

‘Excellent,’ said Erimond. ‘I look forward to it. Good day, Lord Pavus.’

She inclined her head in a polite nod, then turned and departed. As she slipped past the guards at the gate, she brought the white mask back up to her face.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning was rather dull for Dorian. The damned awful parade was tomorrow, and everyone was busy with last minute arrangements. Josephine, Cullen and Trevelyan were all out in the city, and had been since dawn. They were not expected back until late, which left Dorian alone with Sera. They lasted not five minutes in each other’s company before they started to get on each other’s nerves.

‘Booooored,’ Sera complained, for what felt like the hundredth time. She was draped upside down on the settee, legs flung over the back and swinging in the air. She stared at Dorian, as though expecting him to produce some entertainment from Maker knows where.

‘There’s a whole city out there you know,’ he ground out irritably, closing his book. It was proving a struggle to read it, as his study was interrupted every five minutes or so by a fresh complaint from Sera.

‘Seen it,’ Sera said shortly.

‘Val Royeaux is enormous. You cannot possibly have seen it all.’

‘Seen all the interesting bits, haven’t I?’

‘Isn’t there somebody else you can go bother?’ Dorian asked, exasperated.

‘Nope,’ said Sera cheerfully. She tilted her head to examine the large portrait over the fireplace, a rather gaudy depiction of the Emperor Judicael Valmont I. ‘Do you think Josephine would mind if I used that for target practise?’

In the end Dorian left the house in search of some peace and quiet, leaving Sera behind to inflict whatever vandalism she chose on the furnishings. The day was overcast, somewhat muting the jubilant mood that had taken over the city the past few days. Dorian wandered idly, carrying his book under his arm. He was looking for somewhere to settle down and read for a couple of hours, when an enticing smell caught his attention.

The smell led him to a quiet little café tucked down a narrow alleyway. The alley itself opened out into a charming courtyard, where the café was situated. A few customers sat on the tables and chairs, talking softly to one another. In a large cage tucked into the corner was a bird, its plumage a riot of bright colours. Dorian recognised the species – he’d seen one at a party in Tevinter once. Its owner had trained it to speak – mostly some very rude words. 

The smell turned out to be lightly mulled wine. Dorian ordered a glass, and sat down at a table to read.

The time slipped past quickly, and before he knew it Dorian was on his third glass of wine. The young serving girl placed it on the table with a polite nod. It was only when she turned and left that Dorian caught the flicker of movement over her shoulder. Someone on the other side of the café had been watching him, and looked away just a mite too quickly to not be suspicious.

The man who’d been staring was sitting alone. He had a hood pulled low over his face, and was deliberately angling himself so that Dorian couldn’t get a good look at him. There were no visible weapons on him – but that meant nothing.

Dorian picked up his staff. It got him sharp looks in the street, the undisputable proof that he was a mage. But after his near brush with death, nothing in this world or the next would have persuaded Dorian to leave it behind.

He readied himself as he stood suddenly from his table. Moving quickly – too quickly he hoped, to give the man in the hood chance to flee – he crossed the café. He held his staff before him, ready to throw up a protective barrier of magic should the man lash out.

‘I’d advise you don’t move,’ said Dorian coldly, as he loomed over the hooded stranger. ‘Not unless you want to find yourself on the wrong end of a fireball – Andraste’s flaming knickers, it’s _you_.’

‘It’s me,’ Zevran drawled, pushing his hood back and reclining comfortably in his chair.

‘Are you _following_ me?’ Dorian demanded.

‘Following is such an unpleasant word. It sounds so very _seedy_ , no? I am merely ensuring your safety, in as discreet a manner as possible.’

‘Not that discreet!’ Dorian snapped.

‘Ah yes,’ said Zevran. ‘An unforgivable error.’ He sighed and picked up his half empty glass. ‘Perhaps this wine is stronger than I believed.’

‘Shouldn’t you be with the Inquisitor?’ Dorian said testily. ‘It’s his safely you’re supposed to be ensuring, discreetly or not.’

‘Lord Trevelyan is currently within the confines of the royal court. He is surrounded by some of the finest guards in Orlais.’

‘So you thought you’d stalk me instead?’ Dorian groused. ‘Well your services are not required thank you very much! Go away.’

‘But I still have half a glass of wine to drink,’ Zevran said. ‘Won’t you join me?’

‘No I will not,’ Dorian huffed. ‘Leave me alone.’

He marched back off to his own table. He sat down, making a show of picking up his book again and pointedly studying its pages, completely and aggressively ignoring Zevran. He was vaguely aware that the other patrons of the café were staring openly at the both of them, fascinated by the little display they’d just witnessed.

But try as Dorian might – and Maker knew he tried – he couldn’t manage to absorb any of the words on the page. He was irritatingly aware of the elf on the other side of the courtyard, and the fact that he was probably still watching Dorian. Eventually he couldn’t keep up the pretence anymore and glanced over.

Sure enough Zevran was still there, lounging almost indecently in his chair. He proffered his glass in a mocking little toast to Dorian.

Dorian sighed in exasperation. He was never going to be able to concentrate now. And if he left the café, no doubt he would only be followed elsewhere. At least this way he knew where the elf _was_.

Without saying a word Dorian kicked out the second chair at his table, in a distinctly hostile invitation. Moments later Zevran sank into it like a cat.

‘Answer me a question,’ said Dorian, when the man was quite done settling himself into a comfortable position.

‘Only if you agree to answer a question of mine,’ said Zevran. He swirled around the remaining wine in his glass, examining it critically.

‘Why should I answer any questions of yours?’ said Dorian. ‘ _You’re_ the one following _me_ about.’

‘A fair exchange,’ said Zevran. ‘I am Antivan after all. Never give something for nothing. Even information – _especially_ information.’

‘Which leads me rather nicely to my question actually,’ said Dorian at once. ‘What exactly do you get out of all of this?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Helping the Inquisition. Offering to guard the Inquisitor. What advantage do you gain? You haven’t asked for anything, not even money.’

‘And yet His Worship has insisted on paying me nonetheless. A very generous man, is he not?’

‘Just answer the question,’ said Dorian sharply.

Zevran paused for a moment, looking at Dorian with an unsettlingly inscrutable expression. He took a long, careful sip of his wine. ‘I imagine you were in Tevinter for the Fifth Blight, were you not?’ he said at last.

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ Dorian demanded.

‘I was in Ferelden,’ Zevran continued. ‘It was most terrible, but I am afraid that I didn’t give it much thought. I was there to do a job, it meant little to me if people were being killed by darkspawn. So long as _I_ was not, what did it matter?’

‘Charming.’

‘Would it surprise you to know that I met the Hero of Ferelden?’ Zevran said. ‘She was a most inspiring woman – and quite beguiling, it must be said. It would be no exaggeration to say she changed my life. People like her are rare. They are the fixed points around which the world moves. Rather like His Worship, no?’

Zevran finished the last of his wine, and gestured for the serving girl to bring him another. ‘People of such quality should not fall to anything so very mundane as an assassin’s blade,’ he continued. ‘A thing like that would be a terrible waste.’

‘That’s it, is it?’ said Dorian sceptically. ‘I’m supposed to believe you’re doing this out of some kind of misplaced sense of honour?’

‘Is that so hard to believe?’ said Zevran with a smile. ‘Besides, as I mentioned before, the Inquisition helped me out of a tight spot. Perhaps I simply don’t like being in anyone’s debt.’

‘That sounds more like it,’ agreed Dorian. The buxom serving girl arrived at their table with a fresh glass of wine for Zevran. The elf whispered something in her ear as she bent to take the empty glass away, and she giggled and blushed before hurrying off. Dorian rolled his eyes.

‘Now it is my turn to ask _you_ a question,’ said Zevran, once he was finished admiring the retreating girl’s form. He leant forward across the table with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

‘I think you’ll recall that I never actually agreed to that,’ Dorian pointed out archly.

‘What a shame,’ said Zevran. ‘Ah well, if you are too frightened to answer a simple question, then I suppose there is nothing I can do about it…’

‘ _Fine_ ,’ ground out Dorian. ‘Ask your damned question then.’

Zevran leaned a little closer across the table, so that he was almost conspiratorially close. He hushed his voice, and did something rather lewd with his eyebrows. ‘What’s it like debauching a religious icon?’ he said.

Dorian smothered the urge to dump his glass of wine all over the elf’s blonde head. He sat perfectly still for a moment, until he was quite sure he had control of himself.

‘You will never find out,’ he said icily.

Zevran sighed. ‘What a pity,’ he said wistfully.

…

In the end Dorian was forced to return back to the Inquisition headquarters, just to escape his irritating shadow. Trevelyan and the others had still not returned, and nor were they expected back for some time. Mercifully Sera had also gone out. The house was quiet.

The mulled wine he’d drunk at the café had made Dorian unusually lethargic. Mindful of his later dinner appointment, he decided to put his head down for an hour or so. He’d meant it to just be a short refreshing nap, but by the time he actually woke up it was nearly evening.

He was no longer alone on the bed. Lying next to him, still fully clothed, was Trevelyan. He appeared fast asleep, but after a moment his eyes opened slowly.

‘I have had a truly awful day,’ he mumbled.

‘Was there a great deal of poking and prodding?’ asked Dorian sympathetically.

‘Untold amounts,’ confirmed Trevelyan with a groan. ‘Stand here Your Worship, go there Your Worship, wouldn’t you prefer to wear this Your Worship?’

‘Poor you,’ Dorian said. He shuffled closer across the bed and pressed a kiss to Trevelyan’s forehead. ‘I would stay to offer comfort, but I’m afraid I have a dinner engagement.’

‘A dinner engagement?’ said Trevelyan, pushing himself up onto his elbows and frowning. ‘A dinner engagement with who?’

‘Juliana Erimond. She invited me yesterday during her little visit.’

Trevelyan sighed and flopped back down onto the bed. ‘Must you go?’ he asked plaintively.

‘What? Duck out of a prior arrangement with a woman I barely know, in order to spend the evening here in bed with you? Hmmm… it _is_ tempting.’

In other circumstances, Dorian wouldn’t have given a second thought to sending a messenger along to the Night Gates with his humblest apologies. But he did genuinely want to hear Erimond’s thoughts on potential reform for the Imperium. She might not have been a pleasant woman, but she was plainly a clever one. What she had to say on the matter would probably be well worth hearing.  

‘However it would be unforgivably rude to keep a lady waiting,’ he continued. ‘You’ll just have to survive without me for a few hours.’

Trevelyan sighed. ‘I supposed I’ll manage,’ he mumbled. He sounded half asleep already.

Dorian got up and changed into the same green robe he’d worn to King Markus’s soiree. It was perhaps rather finer and grander than what he would normally wear to a humble dinner, but he wanted to remind Juliana Erimond that she was not the only member of an old and well-established House, or a wealthy and influential family of the Imperium.

He leant down to kiss Trevelyan before leaving. ‘Don’t fall asleep in your clothes,’ he said, tugging playfully at the man’s collar.

Trevelyan raised his head slightly to kiss Dorian again. ‘Why don’t you stay here and take them off for me?’ he replied.

Dorian laughed. ‘You say that amatus, but you look like you’re about to fall asleep any moment. I fear that the blow to my ego would be more than I could bear.’

‘I’m not sure anything could put a dent in your ego for long.’

Dorian dearly wanted to get back into the bed and make him pay for that little jibe, but forced himself to be content with just one last kiss. He left Trevelyan dozing on the bed.

He passed Cullen coming up the stairs on his way out. He looked like a man who had suffered through an exceedingly trying day, and was clinging onto the last shreds of his patience by his fingertips.

Outside the earlier oppressive cloud had cleared. The moon was waning, and the stars shone brilliantly across the night sky. Dorian amused himself by picking out the constellations as he walked.

The streets grew steadily more unsavoury as he neared the Night Gates. Once or twice, as he took short cuts down quieter, darker side alleys, Dorian passed shady figures lurking in the deepest shadows. He suspected that the staff slung very visibly over his back was the only thing that had _kept_ them lurking there.

There was a torch burning in a sconce outside Erimond’s shabby little house. Dorian knocked on the door, and was shown in by an elf in shabby servant’s clothes.

‘May I take your staff ser?’ said the elf deferentially. There were bruises on his wrists, not quite hidden by the cuffs of his shirt. A slave most likely, Dorian thought with distaste.

‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll hang onto it.’

The elf nodded and led Dorian through into a small dining chamber. Erimond had gone to some effort to make it appear less dingy, with tapestries hanging on the wall and a fine rug laid out over the floor. The table settings appeared to be of good quality too.

‘Please, take a seat ser,’ said the elf. ‘Magister Erimond will be with you momentarily. Can I get you something to drink?’

‘Some wine will do nicely, thank you,’ said Dorian. He took a seat at the table as the boy scuttled away.

Sure enough, Juliana Erimond arrived shortly afterwards. Unlike her ensemble of the day before, there was no hint at all of Orlais in her appearance – everything about her dress was pure Tevinter. A sharply angled high collar wrapped around her neck, edged with silver ornamentation. Her robe was a deep, dark blue – very nearly black. It was very ostentatious.

The two of them would have looked a ridiculous pair to an outsider, Dorian suddenly thought. Both dressed in all their opulent finery, sitting down to dinner in a ramshackle old hovel.

‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting,’ Erimond said, taking a seat. The elven slave reappeared with two silver goblets of a rich, red wine. He placed them on the table, and went to stand quietly in the corner until he was needed again.

‘A toast,’ Erimond proposed, picking up her own goblet. ‘To the future.’

A tad trite for Dorian’s tastes, but he knew his manners. ‘The future,’ he intoned unenthusiastically. He raised his goblet briefly, and took a drink. It was an excellent vintage.

‘Have you given any more consideration to my offer?’ Erimond asked. ‘I leave for Tevinter the day after next. I would be most pleased if you would accompany me. We would travel by ship to Antiva, and then across into the Imperium.’

‘I’m afraid I get rather seasick,’ said Dorian.

‘Is that so?’ said Lady Erimond, watching him intently. ‘What a pity. There is really nothing I can say to change your mind?’

It was tempting. How long would he have to be away, really? Months. A year at most. Not so much in the grand scheme of things. Who knew what he might be able to accomplish in that time?

What was it Erimond had said, during their first meeting? ‘The time to take advantage is now.’ Would that opportunity slip through his fingers forever? Would he miss his one, best chance?

‘No,’ he said at last, the word unnaturally heavy in his mouth. ‘I can’t say I wouldn’t like to return to Tevinter someday. Make no mistake Magister, I still love my homeland. But not right now. I have… important commitments here.’

‘That is a shame,’ said Erimond, watching him carefully. ‘I had hoped differently. Ah well.’ She gestured to the elf, lurking in the corner. ‘Boy, refill Lord Pavus’s cup. And find out where our meal is. I’m sure my guest grows hungry.’

In truth Dorian’s goblet was only half empty, but he didn’t object as the boy hurried over with a fine silver jug. It was, after all, very good wine. The elf’s hands trembled slightly as he filled the goblet, although fortunately Erimond didn’t seem to notice. Dorian felt a powerful stab of sympathy for the lad.

The aforementioned meal arrived shortly afterwards. It was classic Tevinter cuisine. Dorian couldn’t help wonder if this was all part of Erimond’s effort to persuade him to return to the Imperium with her – from her dress, to the engraved goblets and plates, to even the food. All seemingly designed to make Dorian nostalgic for his homeland.

He was only halfway through his entrée when he began to feel unwell. At first Dorian tried to ignore it, but suddenly the feeling increased tenfold. The world span nauseatingly around him, as though he was roaring drunk. He tried to speak, to ask for help, but his mouth refused to form the words. At the edge of consciousness, he felt a blackness begin to tug insistently at him. He fought against it valiantly, but hopelessly. The knife and fork he was holding fell from his hands with a clatter.

He looked over at Erimond. She was staring straight at him, a cold smile playing about her face. Then he glanced over at the elven slave, who was shrinking into the corner as though he wanted the wall to swallow him up. Unbidden, the memory of Briala’s words to him at the Neverran Embassy rose up in the forefront of his mind.

_‘Most nobles would never accept a glass of anything from their rivals, but from some elven maid they’d never laid eyes on before in their life? They’d take it without a second thought.’_

It was the last thought that he managed before the darkness closed in.


	6. Chapter 6

Dorian woke up with a pounding headache. He cursed, blinking blearily as the word slowly swam into focus around him.

He was sitting on a dirty stone floor. There was an iron manacle around his wrist, painfully tight and chaining him to the wall. The room was lit by a handful of candles, which made a poor light. There were a few crates and barrels in there with him, but no windows and just one door. An unpleasant odour of fish hung heavily in the air.

Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of Dorian’s staff anywhere. Although someone had thoughtfully left a large tankard of water within easy reaching distance. Dorian, mouth as dry as the Hissing Wastes, gulped it down gratefully. His head ached miserably.

At length he set about trying to find a way out of his predicament. He tried magic, but to his horror found himself utterly unable to perform any. He could feel it, the power, but it was somehow out of his reach. The sensation was deeply unsettling, and for a brief moment a horrible panic gripped him.

He forced himself to calm down, and quickly found the source of his problem clamped around his wrist. What he’d at first taken to be an ordinary iron manacle was nothing of the sort. It was engraved with lyrium, and enchanted to suppress the magical abilities of whoever was wearing it. Such items were very valuable. Back in the Imperium they were used on political prisoners.

The chain attached to the manacle seemed sturdy and well made. There were no handy guards to try and bribe, and no way to signal for help. In short, there was nothing for Dorian to do but sit and wait.

After some time he heard footsteps approaching, and the sound of muffled voices. The footsteps grew closer and closer, until Dorian heard a key being turned in the lock of the door.

Juliana Erimond entered. She was dressed down – _very_ down, in the plain clothes and cheap leather armour of a sell-sword. In her hand she was holding Dorian’s staff. She regarded him dispassionately.

‘So, you’ve finally woken up,’ she said. ‘Good. I was beginning to wonder if the stupid boy hadn’t given you too much.’

Dorian propped himself back up against the wall and levelled her with his coldest stare. ‘Not the worst dinner party I’ve ever been to,’ he said. ‘But your skills as a host do leave something to be desired.’

She smirked. ‘Ever the wit, Lord Pavus? Even in these circumstances?’

‘My dear lady, I’ve been in far worse circumstances than these I assure you. And always found my way back out of them again.’

‘Not this time.’

‘Do you really think you’ll get away with this?’ Dorian said impatiently. ‘The Inquisition knows that I was going to meet you. It doesn’t matter if you run back to Tevinter, or anywhere else on the damned continent - they’ll find you.’

She laughed unpleasantly. ‘No, they’ll find Juliana Erimond. A poor, confused young lady who will know nothing about any of this.’

There was a long pause while Dorian digested this, and all its implications. ‘You’re not Juliana Erimond,’ he said at last.

The woman leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. ‘I’m afraid not. Oh, the story was half true. Lady Erimond _was_ coming to Val Royeaux to offer her support to the Inquisition. But she was tragically waylaid.’

‘You’ve killed her?’

‘Nothing so crass. She’s fine. Or at least she will be. In a day or two she’ll wake up back on her estates in Vyrantium, rather confused and missing a few weeks. Her investigations will uncover nothing.’

‘How neat,’ said Dorian acidly. ‘You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?’

‘Not so neat as I would have liked,’ said Dorian’s captor with a frown. ‘I _had_ hoped you would agree to return to Tevinter of your own free will. Your refusal of my offer meant I had to resort to more… indelicate methods.’

Dorian’s head still ached with the after-effects of her ‘indelicate methods’. He studied the nameless woman carefully, searching for any clues to her identity or motives. Before she’d worn the haughty demeanour of a Magister like a second skin, and now she seemed just as comfortable in the identity of a mercenary. Her posture – formally ramrod straight – was slumped and wearied, as if bowed by years of hard fighting and harder drinking.  

A chameleon then, able to step into new identities like other people changed clothes. Most probably a highly trained assassin and spy. The only question was – sent by who?

‘I take it then that whoever your employer is, they reside within the Imperium?’ Dorian fished, more out of hope than any real expectation. Sure enough, the mysterious woman did not reply, her face carefully betraying nothing.

‘You must as least give me something to call you by,’ Dorian complained. ‘Although if you prefer I’m sure I can invent a name. You might not find it very complimentary however.’

‘You can call me Sapper,’ the woman said.

‘Sapper? How very mysterious,’ said Dorian airily. ‘A codename, I presume?’

The so-called Sapper merely smiled, straightening up. ‘I hope you’ll excuse me Lord Pavus,’ she said politely. ‘My ship is due to sail at dawn, and I have to make sure everything is in order for our trip back to Tevinter.’

‘I’m _so_ looking forward to it,’ Dorian said, each word dripping with sarcasm.

Sapper left, closing the door behind her. A moment later Dorian heard the key turn softly in the lock. He listened until he heard her footsteps fade away, and could be quite sure she wasn’t listening through the keyhole. Then he cursed, vehemently and at length.

He hated to admit it, but he was trapped. With his magic dampened, and his bindings secure, there was no way to escape this miserable little cell. No doubt at dawn he would be hauled onto some nondescript merchant vessel, and once they were at sea there would be no chance at all getting away.

He seemed to be in some kind of cellar. The fish smell suggested the docks, which in turn probably meant a warehouse. Down here there was no way to tell how close to dawn it actually was. His only hope was to wait and pray that somehow, against all the odds, the Inquisition would find him before it was too late.

He would already have been missed, he was certain of it. No doubt there were already guards battering down the doors of Erimond – no, Sapper’s - little house near the Night Gates. To find what, exactly? The cage empty and the birds all fled. Nothing and nobody to tell them where to search next. This Sapper very much struck Dorian as the sort who didn’t leave loose ends.

He examined the enchanted manacle on his wrist curiously. He’d never seen one up close before. Granted, he’d never expected to see one in exactly these circumstances, but it seemed pointless to let the opportunity go to waste.

They were expensive – _very_ expensive. Dwarven made, of course. Rare too – the enchantment had a nasty habit of fading over the years, until what had once been a valuable magical item was nothing more than a cheap piece of iron. As a result, there were only ever a few in existence at any one time. And nearly all of those in Tevinter.

Whoever the hand behind all this was, they were rich and well-connected. This must have been a costly enterprise all round. The assassins, the services of Sapper herself, the abduction of the real Juliana Erimond… Hardly the moves of an amateur. Sadly, rich, well-connected and habitually scheming described a good two thirds of the entire Magisterium.

Time dragged. Dorian strained his ears, and could distantly make out some noises coming from above. Other people moving about in the warehouse no doubt. Ordinary dockworkers, or Sapper’s men? There was no way to tell.

After who knew how long, another noise began to creep into the edges of his awareness. It was very quiet, but much closer. In fact, it seemed to be coming from just outside the door of Dorian’s little cell. It was slightly metallic, the faintest chink of iron on iron. Dorian listened silently. Perhaps it was just a rat. A metal rat, yes that was it.

The metallic chinking stopped. There was a scuffling – so quiet as to be almost inaudible. And then, without warning, the door swung open.

Zevran was standing on the other side, leaning casually against the doorframe. Dorian would never have imagined being so pleased to see the swaggering wretch. The elf was idly replacing a set of delicate lockpicks into a soft leather pouch. He grinned cockily at Dorian, and then put a warning finger up to his mouth. Dorian got the message – be silent.

Zevran stepped swiftly inside, closing the door behind him quietly. He knelt, and examined the chains the bound Dorian to the wall.

‘I don’t recognise this lock,’ he said in a hushed whisper, frowning down at it. His deft fingers turned the manacle over briskly, studying it from all angles.

‘It’s dwarven made,’ said Dorian under his breath. ‘Enchanted too.’

‘Ah,’ said Zevran. He smiled, and cracked his knuckles showily. ‘I do so _love_ a challenge.’

And apparently it _was_ a challenge, because it seemed to take forever. Zevran stayed almost perfectly still, only his hands working as he twisted his little lockpicks this way and that.

‘What’s taking so long?’ Dorian demanded at last.

‘You would rather I left you here?’ said Zevran quietly, peering up at Dorian over the iron cuff and arching a sceptical eyebrow.

What are you even _doing_ here, Dorian wanted to ask. But considering the circumstances, he imagined that would probably sound rather ungrateful.

‘Now hold still,’ said Zevran, and continued with his ministrations.

Finally, at long last, there was a faint little ‘click’, and a sudden relief of the pressure on Dorian’s wrist. The manacle came loose, and Dorian felt a small undercurrent of power thrum in his veins as the enchantment fell away from him.

‘Voilà,’ said Zevran, in a truly appalling Orlesian accent.

Dorian freed his hand, wincing and rubbing at the sore skin on his wrist. He tried awkwardly to stand, but his legs had been made weak and numb after so much time sitting on the freezing stone floor. They buckled treacherously underneath him, and he was only saved from an undignified collapse by Zevran, who swiftly slid one arm under Dorian’s shoulders.

‘Perhaps whatever you were drugged with has not worn off…’ Zevran muttered.

Dorian shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. His skin began to prickle painfully as the blood rushed back into his lower limbs, but he felt his strength returning with it. He straightened up, shrugged off Zevran’s arm. ‘I’m fine,’ he insisted.

Zevran looked dubious, but didn’t argue.

‘We must move quickly,’ he said. ‘We should be able to get out of here without being seen – provided _you_ can be quiet enough, of course.’

Dorian bridled. ‘I can be perfectly silent, thank you,’ he hissed.

The cellar door led to some stone steps, leading upwards. They climbed them until they found themselves in a narrow wooden passageway. The smell of fish grew noticeably stronger.

‘Through here,’ said Zevran.

They slipped quietly through a door which led into a cavernous warehouse. There were crates and barrels piled everywhere. Lanterns cast a dull glow, only just barely illuminating the place.

Zevran moved like a cat, swiftly and silently. Dorian felt uncharacteristically clumsy next to him, but managed not to make any loud noises or trip over anything in the heavy gloom. There were other people in the warehouse with them – Dorian could hear them moving about. Thankfully the piles of cargo shielded them from any watchful gaze.

Zevran stopped suddenly, holding up a hand and gesturing for Dorian to do the same. He stayed absolutely still, frowning in concentration, before suddenly roughly grabbing Dorian by the arm.

‘Hide, hide…’ he whispered.

But Dorian hesitated for too long. He suddenly heard the heavy footsteps that had startled Zevran, and looked round hopelessly for somewhere to conceal himself. But the shadowy half-light made it difficult, and he tarried for a vital two seconds.

A man in armour rounded the crates in front of them. For a moment he just stared, before bellowing and drawing his sword from its scabbard.

A moment later he collapsed with a choking sound as one of Zevran’s daggers buried itself in his throat.

‘I don’t suppose you know how to use a sword?’ the elf asked as he pulled his blade free of the dead man’s neck.

‘Why on earth would I know how to use a sword?’ Dorian snapped. The other people in the warehouse had started yelling.

‘I was just wondering if I was going to have to fight them all by myself or not,’ said Zevran. He’d drawn his other dagger too, and hefted them both in his hands as if to remind himself of their weight. ‘Please, do not worry. I’ll protect you.’ He actually _winked_ at Dorian.

Dorian scowled and held his palm out flat. A spark of lighting flew across it, crackling with power. ‘I don’t need a staff to fight,’ he told Zevran. It would have really, really helped though. Without a staff to direct the magic it was as much luck as judgement as to where any of it landed.

A loud hammering of footsteps announced the arrival of more mercenaries, hurrying towards them at speed. Zevran threw himself into the fray at once, instantly dispatching two of them with one graceful swing of his arm. A woman grabbed Dorian, and made as though to stab him. She gasped and fell backwards as her body froze into ice.

It was the messiest fight Dorian had been in for some time. Half the time his magic missed its intended target, and he came close to serious injury on several occasions. Embarrassingly however it seemed that Zevran was determined to make good on his promise to protect Dorian, and each time once of the mercenary’s blades cut too closely there he was, blocking the blow.

‘There might be more,’ said Zevran when the last body hit the floor. ‘Hurry.’

They made a run for it, hurtling towards the large main doors at the far end of the warehouse, any pretence of a sneaky escape abandoned.

The doors were wide open. Waiting for them, blocking their escape, was Sapper. She looked livid, still carrying Dorian’s staff, clearly braced for a fight. Her elven servant, the one who’d given Dorian the drugged wine, was stood behind her. He cowered, trying to disappear from sight behind his mistress.

There were more mercenaries with her. ‘Get them!’ Sapper yelled. ‘And take the mage alive, or I’ll have your heads!’

The soldiers drew their swords and charged. Dorian and Zevran ducked back into maze of piled up cargo. The cramped space would, at least, do a little to even up the odds.  

Dorian killed two with a bolt of lightning that ricocheted madly and came back to catch him painfully on the arm. He winced, trying to ignore the smell of burning flesh, and punched another in the sternum. The man cried out, and was about to stick Dorian between the ribs when Zevran suddenly appeared from nowhere and killed the bastard with a vicious slash across the throat. Three more already lay dead on the ground behind him.

Dorian could hear Sapper yelling furiously. She hadn’t followed her soldiers into the fray, preferring – like most mages – to hang back where she could cause the most damage. The mass of obstructing crates and boxes that filled the warehouse were obviously causing her some trouble on that front.

And then suddenly a fireball ripped through the crates just to Dorian’s left. He jumped back – just in time too, because another fireball followed closely on the first’s heels.

Quickly the air began to fill with smoke as the dry wood caught fire. Sapper didn’t stop there, throwing more fireballs in an effort to turn the warehouse into a raging inferno. Even her own soldiers seemed shocked and panicked by this unexpected turn of events, forgetting Dorian and Zevran completely in favour of scrambling away from the flames.

Soon the air was so thick with black smoke that it seemed impossible to breath. Dorian coughed, desperate for fresh air. If that wasn’t enough the heat from the flames was growing stronger by the second. If they didn’t move, they were going to get cooked.

‘We can’t stay here,’ he gasped at Zevran, who nodded weakly.

There was no other choice than to break cover. Sapper was still waiting for them at the warehouse doors, her petrified servant at her back. She smiled horribly as Dorian and Zevran stumbled from the billowing black smoke, and raised Dorian’s staff.

It was a fine weapon – very fine, and Dorian knew it. Dragonbone and silverite, enchanted by one of the finest dwarvern masters of the craft. No wonder she’d traded her own plain obsidian stave for it.

It had been a gift from Trevelyan, just before the march on the Arbor Wilds. Dorian had devoted an embarrassing amount of thought to trying to figure out exactly what such a lavish gift was supposed to mean. Seeing it now, turned on him, made him angrier than he would have ever imagined.

‘Hand yourself over Lord Pavus,’ Sapper said coldly. ‘And I won’t kill your little friend here.’ She levelled the staff at Zevran.

‘You’ll kill him anyway,’ Dorian said angrily.

She smirked unpleasantly. ‘Perhaps I will. Ah well, I suppose I was never told what condition I had to produce you in. Just so long as you can still talk.’

She flung the staff back, power already beginning to crackle around it as she readied the blow. Dorian raised his hands, hoping against hope to raise some kind of half-decent barrier that might deflect the worst of it.

The burst of violent magical energy never came. Instead Sapper made a gurgling noise, blood appearing on her lips, and sagged forward. She staggered a few steps towards them, before collapsing into a heap on the floor.

Behind her the elven servant trembled uncontrollably. In his hands he was holding a thin silver knife. Dorian recognised it as part of the cutlery set that had been on the dinner table earlier.

‘I killed her,’ he said weakly.

Above them the roof made an ominous groaning noise as the fire reached it.

‘Time for a hasty exit,’ Zevran said.

Dorian grabbed his staff, wrenching it from Sapper’s dead grip. Zevran took the shell-shocked servant by the arm and dragged him along too, the three of them spilling out into the chilly morning air.

The warehouse fire was causing quite a commotion. People were streaming towards it in in all directions, the docks crowded even at this early hour. An alarm bell was ringing frantically nearby.

The trio disappeared into the chaos, the crowd too fixated on the fire to noticed the odd strangers in their midst – two elves and a mage, reeking of smoke. They pushed through, moving against the tide of people, until at last they found themselves in open air.

Dorian tore his gaze away from the stricken warehouse behind them, and looked out over the rooftops and spires of a town that was most definitely _not_ Val Royeaux.


	7. Chapter 7

‘Where the hell are we?’ Dorian demanded at once.

‘Parnasse,’ said Zevran, fastidiously brushing soot off his leather jerkin. ‘A few miles out from Val Royeaux.’

Dorian sat down heavily on a nearby wall. His arm ached. The sleeve was singed beyond repair, and a quick examination revealed quite a nasty burn underneath. Wounded by his own magic – that hadn’t happened to him since he was a foolhardy child.

The elf who had, until very recently, served Dorian’s would-be-abductor, looked as though he was on the verge of some kind of nervous breakdown. His hands were shaking madly, still holding the little knife he’d used to stab his mistress. Her blood stained his sleeves. He was staring at it as though entranced.

Zevran placed a gentle hand on the lad’s shoulder and carefully took the knife from him. ‘You need some brandy,’ he pronounced.

‘I killed her,’ the elf said.

‘Yes, and I’m very bloody grateful that you did,’ said Dorian. He stood up, every joint and muscle in his body protesting.

‘But I killed her,’ the boy repeated. He sounded dazed.

‘Brandy,’ said Zevran firmly, steering the boy away by the shoulder.

Brandy sounded like an excellent idea. There was no shortage of taverns nearby to the docks. They entered one and ordered a large brandy for all three of them. Despite it barely being past dawn the woman behind the bar handed the drinks over without comment.

‘You get caught up in that fire monsieur?’ she asked sympathetically. ‘A nasty business. I do hope it doesn’t spread.’

The young boy choked on his first mouthful of brandy. As a slave, he’d probably never had hard spirits before. But he downed the rest, the trembling in his hands finally beginning to subside.

‘What’s your name?’ Dorian asked him.

‘Bryn, ser,’ said the boy. He kept his head bowed deferentially. Dorian wanted to tip his chin up, force the poor bastard to look him in the eye, but knew that would probably only make the lad’s nerves worse. 

‘Well Bryn,’ Dorian said. ‘I imagine thanks are in order. You probably saved our lives back there. Well, _his_ life and my good looks, which are more or less as important.’

Bryn suddenly went white as a sheet. He sat down heavily on one of the tavern’s rough wooden chairs. ‘I killed a mage,’ he said. ‘I killed her! Magister Cataline will have me whipped, and then he’ll have me sent to his laboratory.’

‘Magister Cataline?’ Dorian said sharply. ‘As in Mavius Cataline?’

Bryn nodded, his eyes filling with tears. He twisted his sleeves nervously in his hands, and Dorian caught sight of the bruise marks on his wrists.

Dorian had never met Mavius Cataline in person. He didn’t attend any of the parties in Minrathous. In fact, he rarely showed his face in the Magisterium at all, preferring to remain on his country estate. Rumour had it that he conducted secret experiments there, in blood magic and other dark arts.

Bryn had mentioned a laboratory. If what he’d heard about Cataline was true, then Dorian could well imagine what happened to the slaves who were sent there.

‘This Magister of yours cannot reach you here,’ Zevran said reassuringly. He’d taken his daggers from his belt and started cleaning the blood off them with a piece of rag cloth. Bryn watched him with horrified fascination.

‘He can,’ he said. ‘He nearly got _you_ my lord, didn’t he?’

He looked Dorian straight in the face briefly, before suddenly flushing and dropping his eyes.

‘I’m not a Magister,’ Dorian told the boy. ‘You don’t have to act like I’m going to have you dragged off and whipped if you look at me wrong.’

‘But you’re the son of a Magister,’ said Bryn. ‘And the apprentice of one too. My master used to talk about it.’

That got Dorian’s attention. ‘What exactly was it he used to say?’

‘He talked a lot about the man you were apprenticed to. I can’t… I’m sorry my lord, I can’t remember the name exactly…’

‘Gereon Alexius,’ said Dorian. ‘Was that it?’

Bryn nodded. ‘That was it. He talked a lot about him. About his research. That’s why he wanted you my lord, so you could tell him about it.’

‘He told _you_ this?’ said Zevran.

The elf shook his head emphatically. ‘No. But he used to talk about it in front of us. He used to talk about all kinds of things in front of us.’

Dorian could believe it. All his life he’d seen his peers treat their slaves as though they were deaf, dumb and blind. The very idea that they might be listening in, _remembering_ what they’d seen and heard would have never occurred to them. After all, it would have meant acknowledging their slaves as real people.

But what was it that Alexius had been researching that had so fascinated Cataline? Was what it that he thought Dorian could tell him…?

‘Time travel,’ he groaned as realisation dawned. ‘He wants to know about the damned time travel.’

‘That’s right,’ said Bryn nervously. ‘He said you would know about it. That you’d worked on it with the Magister.’

‘Time travel?’ said Zevran disbelievingly. ‘That seems unlikely, no?’

‘It doesn’t work, if that’s what you’re asking,’ said Dorian. ‘Not without the Rift. Whatever secret Cataline hopes I can tell him, he’s barking up the wrong tree.’

‘He’ll send someone else for you,’ said Bryn, looking frightened. ‘And they’ll find out what I did to the mistress, and then they’ll take me back to Tevinter to be punished…’

‘No-one’s going to take you back to Tevinter,’ said Dorian firmly. ‘I’ll deal with Magister Cataline.’

Bryn looked dubiously up at Dorian, as though he’d just claimed to be able to snuff out the stars and sun, but nodded nonetheless.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Zevran. He’d finished cleaning his knives, and replaced them back in his belt. ‘If this Cataline person wanted information from you, then why did he send the Crows to kill you?’

‘Oh, he didn’t,’ piped up Bryn. ‘The mistress was very upset when she heard about it. She was worried they would kill you before she could get to you herself.’

‘Charming,’ said Dorian sarcastically. His thoughts raced. So Sapper hadn’t been behind the attempts on his life? If not her, then who?

‘We need to get back to Val Royeaux,’ he said. ‘Speaking of which…’ he turned to Zevran. ‘Not to sound ungrateful, but how did you even _find_ me here?’

‘You? Sound ungrateful? Impossible,’ said Zevran with a grin. ‘I must admit, I followed you to Lady Erimond’s little dinner. When she left, with all her servants, less than twenty minutes after you entered I thought it a mite suspicious. So I followed her. They had a covered cart with them. You must have been on it.’

‘But how did you get _here_?’

‘I had to steal a horse. It was most exciting. I gave the stable hand a kiss as payment – I actually don’t think he minded losing the horse too much.’

Well, it certainly sounded like something the elf would do. Dorian rolled his eyes and threw back the last of his brandy, enjoying the rich burn of it in the back of his throat.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

…

Zevran bought them passage on a merchant caravan passing through Parnasse on its way to Val Royeaux. The merchant herself, an elderly woman of Antivan origin, had initially been rather reluctant to let Dorian join them. Dorian had been offended, until Zevran had pointed out his obvious injuries, his burnt robe, and the fact that he was clearly a mage in a country still adjusting to the idea of mages outside of the Circles.

Then Zevran had whispered a few words in the old woman’s ear, and she’d laughed like a girl of sixteen, gesturing for Dorian to climb aboard the wagon.

It was nearly noon when they arrived back in Val Royeaux. A healer travelling with them had offered to look at Dorian’s arm free of charge, and had applied a poultice to the burn and bandaged it up. It still hurt, but the pain had faded to a dull ache rather than a hot stinging sensation.

The grand city was in the full swing of celebration. Banners and flags were hanging from the walls, and there was a general good mood in the air. But despite the party atmosphere, the outskirts of the city were noticeably quieter than usual.

Belatedly, Dorian remembered Celene’s damned parade. It would have already started. No doubt that’s where everyone was.

‘You take Bryn here back to Maison Vaille,’ Dorian told Zevran. ‘Get them to feed the boy something, he looks ready to drop.’

‘Where are you going?’ Zevran demanded.

‘The Grand Cathedral,’ said Dorian. ‘That’s where the parade is supposed to end. I need to talk to the Inquisitor.’

‘Keep a sharp eye out,’ said Zevran. ‘I would hate for my dashing rescue to have been for nothing.’

They parted, Zevran and Bryn going one way, and Dorian the other. The crowds grew thicker as he drew closer to the parade. He could hear the music now, the noise of the trumpets and drums carrying loudly on the breeze.

At last Dorian made it to the Avenue of the Sun, where the press of people was so tight that he struggled just to pass by. A loud buzzing of chatter and laughter filled the air. The weather had risen to the occasion, and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky overhead. Someone nearby was selling pastries, and the delicious smell served to remind Dorian that the only thing he’d put in his stomach for a whole day had been brandy.

Suddenly the chatter broke into cheering and wild applause. People were craning forward, angling for a better look, and elbowing their fellow citizens out of the way to manage it.

Dorian caught sight of a second floor café overlooking the parade route. A very tall and very broad man stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, presumably to keep the rabble out.

Dorian tossed the man a gold sovereign, thankful that Sapper had left him his money. The man eyed Dorian’s charred sleeve and bandaged arm with disapproval, but nevertheless stood aside to let him past.

He joined the other patrons who were leaning over the café’s carved stone balcony to watch the approaching parade. At its head, in a gilt open carriage, came the Empress. She waved graciously to her citizens, and on the ground her servants dispensed little favours to the crowd.

Dorian had to admit, he could see why the parade had been so costly. Behind Celene came a phalanx of chevaliers, their armour polished so that it gleamed in the midday sun. The high plumes of their helmets swayed as they marched in perfect unison, each with a hand on the pommel of his or her sword.

After that came the trumpeters, playing a military march. Then a sea of banners, each in rich colours and gold and silver embroidery.

And then, at last, the Chantry.

True to her word, Leliana was on foot. The exciting cheering of the crowd increased in volume as she came into view, walking alongside Inquisitor Trevelyan.

While Leliana looked perfectly at home, smiling beatifically at the crowd and offering her blessing to them, Trevelyan looked ill at ease. His expression was shuttered, in contrast to the warm smiles and cheer around him. He also didn’t have on the dress uniform that Dorian knew he was supposed to have worn for the occasion, instead wearing his own slightly battered armour and plain leather coat.

Dorian wished there was some way to get his attention. But there was no way to make himself heard or seen above the roar of the crowd.

And then, just like he had in the Cathedral when Leliana was anointed, Trevelyan looked up and somehow managed to pick Dorian out among the sea of other faces.

His step faltered and his stopped short. He just stared at Dorian, obviously completely shocked to see him standing there on the café balcony. Behind him an irate Grand Cleric gave him a little shove, which seemed to snap some sense back into Maxwell because he started forward again, falling back into step with Leliana. Still he kept on staring up at Dorian, a complicated mix of emotions playing across his face. Dorian found himself unsure of whether to expect a punch or a kiss when they met later at the Cathedral.

And then, while they were busy staring at each other, it happened.

A little scuffle broke out at the edge of the parade, where Imperial soldiers lined the route to keep the crowd held back. Suddenly a young man in mage’s robes broke free and ran forward, heading straight for the Divine.

A sudden horrified hush fell over the crowd. The soldiers scrambled to chase after the mage, but it was horribly clear that they would not be able to make it in time. The Chantry group was facing the wrong way to see the man approaching, and there was not enough time for a clear warning.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion as the mage drew a knife from the folds of his robes. He charged towards Leliana – and then past her. Dorian could only watch frozen in horror as the man came up behind an entirely unguarded Maxwell Trevelyan, and rammed the knife up to the hilt into his side.  

Utter chaos erupted.

People were screaming. The soldiers guarding the parade’s edge came hurtling inwards, the rogue mage disappearing quickly into the press of bodies. The Grand Clerics scattered, and the crowd surged forward trying to see what had happened.

A cry came up from the front of the parade. The chevaliers closed rank around the royal carriage, their weapons drawn as they formed a protective wall around the Empress. The music came to a spluttering end as the trumpeters realised something had gone very wrong.

‘Sweet Andraste,’ the man standing next to Dorian muttered, jaw slack with shock.

Dorian was gone in a shot, out of the café and onto the street before his mind caught up with his feet. He elbowed his way through the crowd, pushing people out of the way in his desperation to reach Trevelyan. It seemed to take forever. The press of people was so tight, their movements so erratic, that it took precious minutes just to fight his way through them all.

Finally, he broke out of the crowd. The parade had fallen into utter disorder, guards milling about the place, their weapons drawn.

One of them grabbed Dorian as he tried to muscle past them.

‘There’s another mage here!’ she yelled.

‘Let _go_ of me,’ Dorian snapped. He nearly sent her reeling with a blast of magic, but some small part of his brain that wasn’t in a blind panic realised that it would only make things worse.

‘He must be going for the Divine!’ said another guard. He held his sword up to Dorian’s face. ‘It that so _mage_? Arrest him!’

There were four or five of them now, gathered round Dorian. The guard holding him wrenched his arm painfully behind his back, deliberately gripping hard over the bandaged wound so that it stung viciously again.

‘Abominations, all of you,’ the guard who’d ordered Dorian arrested muttered, leaning in close enough so that only Dorian and his fellow guardsman could hear. ‘They should have left you to rot in the Circles. Take him away for questioning!’

‘Release him at once!’ a familiar voice demanded. The guards parted to reveal Leliana. The pristine white sleeves of her robe were stained red with blood. Dorian stared, horrified.

‘But Most Holy…

‘At _once_ ,’ Leliana insisted. ‘He is a member of the Inquisition and my personal friend. He is certainly _not_ an assassin.’

Reluctantly the guards released Dorian. They gathered around Leliana like a bodyguard, as if daring Dorian to try anything.

‘Where is he?’ Dorian blurted out.

Leliana stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Dorian’s shoulder. Except that only brought the blood stains on her sleeves closer. Dorian tried to avert his gaze.

‘I had him taken to the Cathedral. My private chambers.’

‘Is he…’ Maker, Dorian’s mouth couldn’t even form the words.

‘He’s alive,’ said Leliana, and Dorian felt his entire body sag in relief. ‘But it’s a bad wound. I’ve ordered a healer summoned. Come with me.’

They walked to the Grand Cathedral, a legion of guards surrounding Leliana, who kept her arm firmly through Dorian’s. The mood in the city had changed palpably – even Dorian, his mind full of other, darker thoughts, could see it. The news had clearly spread like wildfire. The Avenue of the Sun was in chaos, various segments of the grandiose parade milling about unsure of what to do. The crowd stirred restlessly.

They found the Cathedral abuzz. It seemed all the Grand Clerics had retreated there, each attended by a retinue of her own priests. As Leliana entered a chorus of voices piped up, each asking questions, demanding answers, seeking guidance.

She swept through them all, and led Dorian through a narrow door. A handful of lay sisters fell in naturally behind her. At length they came to Leliana’s private apartments within the sprawling expanse of the Cathedral’s grounds.

Trevelyan was laid out over the sheets of the surprisingly plain bed, which were now marked here and there with patches of scarlet blood. He was unconscious, and his face ashen pale. A healer – the same healer in fact who had tended to Dorian mere days ago – was bent over him.

Cullen was there, standing over the bed. He looked up when they entered, and when he saw Dorian his eyes widened with surprise. His eyes flickered down, taking in the burnt clothes and the bandaged arm. The burn had begun to bleed through the dressing, broken open where the overzealous guard had grasped it so hard.

‘I swear Dorian,’ Cullen said, voice unsteady. ‘If it turns out you were just having dinner all night with that damned Magister…’

‘Only if by ‘dinner’ you mean kidnapped and locked in a cellar,’ Dorian said, his own voice treacherously hoarse. ‘How is he?’

Cullen bowed his head. ‘Not good.’

The elven healer stood up. ‘I’ve healed the wound,’ she said. ‘It was deep, but fortunately didn’t hit anything too vital.’

‘He was just aiming for the gap in the armour,’ said Cullen sourly.

‘If the wound’s healed, then what exactly is the problem?’ Dorian demanded. Something else was clearly wrong here.

‘I believe the knife may have been poisoned,’ the healer said softly. ‘Lord Trevelyan won’t wake up, and his heartbeat is very erratic. I’ve done all I can to slow the effects, but…’

‘But what? Can’t you cure it?’

‘My lord, I have no idea what it is. I’ve never seen a poison like this before. Without knowing what I’m dealing with…’

‘You must be able to do something!’

The woman bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly.

Dorian felt something twist in his stomach. For a moment he thought he might be sick, before the dull yawning ache of grief was replaced with the hot burn of anger.

‘Where’s the mage who did this?’ he asked Cullen, voice cold.


	8. Chapter 8

‘Dorian, come, we must give the healer space to work…’ Leliana’s voice was gentle, but the hand on Dorian’s arm was firm.

She didn’t lead him away far, only to the next room. It was a spacious parlour of sorts, decorated in the piously extravagant manner that Dorian had come to expect from the Grand Cathedral. A large painting of Andraste, the Holy Flame held delicately in her hands, looked down on them from the wall.

Leliana stripped off her blood-stained outer robes, throwing them carelessly over a chair. Beneath she had on a plain cotton jerkin and calfskin trousers. She went to a pewter basin full of water, and began to wash the blood from her hands.

She glanced over at a lay sister who was lurking discreetly in the corner. ‘Find out what happened to the mage who attacked the Herald,’ she ordered.  

The girl bowed, nodded, and hurried out.

Cullen entered the parlour. His face was grim. ‘We should make sure the Crown has stationed guards at the White Spire,’ he said. ‘I would suggest sending what remains of the Templars…’

‘But that would send quite the wrong message, I entirely agree,’ said Leliana, drying her hands. She sank into a chair, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the armrest as her mind worked.

Cullen’s eyes strayed to Dorian, and once again took in his general state of dishevelment. ‘Dorian, where in Andraste’s name _were_ you last night?’ he demanded. ‘When you didn’t come back we sent troops to Erimond’s house, but it was empty. Like nobody had ever been there.’

‘She wasn’t Lady Erimond,’ said Dorian. As concisely as possible he relayed the whole sorry tale – from his drinking of the drugged wine, to the information imparted by the escaped slave Bryn. Leliana listened intently from her chair, finally drawing her restless fingers up into a contemplative steeple.  

‘Magister Cataline,’ she said slowly, when Dorian had finished. ‘I have heard of him. A man with a great many secrets I think. But our paths have never crossed.’

Dorian waved a hand dismissively. ‘To hell with Cataline,’ he said bitterly. ‘We have bigger problems now.’

There was a sharp knock at the door. A moment later, without waiting for permission to enter, it opened. In came Vivienne, and following her Josephine and Sera.

‘Maker! Dorian!’ said Josephine in relief as she laid eyes on him. ‘I’d thought maybe you had _both_ …’ she trailed off awkwardly. ‘It’s good to see you alive and well my friend.’ She smiled wanly at him.

‘Has someone sent guards to the White Spire?’ Vivienne asked immediately. She was dressed in a magnificent silver creation. In other circumstances Dorian would have admired it. Now he barely noticed.

‘What do _they_ need guards for?’ Sera demanded. ‘It was one of them that did it!’

‘Thousands of impressionable people saw a man dressed as a mage stab the Herald of Andraste in the streets,’ said Vivienne coldly. ‘Believe me _child_ , the innocents in the White Spire most assuredly need guards tonight.’

‘I will see to it,’ said Leliana with a wave of the hand. The room lapsed into a tight, heavy silence.

‘How is he?’ said Josephine softly.

‘How do you imagine?’ snapped Dorian irritably. He felt restless and on edge. He wanted to be _doing_ something about this, rather than holed up here waiting for news.

Josephine bowed her head, clearly stung by the sharpness his words. A faint tendril of guilt bloomed in Dorian’s chest, but it was swiftly swallowed up by the sea of anger still roiling inside him. He tightened his jaw and looked away.

Painfully aware of the sea of sympathetic eyes on him, he retreated back into the next room, just about resisting the urge to slam the door behind him. Trevelyan remained lying perfectly still on the bed, head propped up on a sea of pillows. The bed itself might have been plain, but Leliana’s austerity had clearly not extended to the bedclothes.

He stopped next to the bed, fingers running softly over Trevelyan’s upturned palm. Someone had stripped him out of his armour and down to his shirt and breeches.

‘And how are _you_?’ said the healer, making Dorian start. He’d almost forgotten she was there. She looked pointedly at Dorian’s own side, where the assassin’s blade had entered - in almost the exact same place as Trevelyan himself was now injured.

‘Fine thank you,’ he said. ‘You have a skill.’

She smiled and nodded. ‘That’s very nice of you to say so, ser. Sister Night – I mean, Divine Victoria used to employ me on occasion to tend to some of her… err, her associates.’

‘Her spies you mean,’ said Dorian. He brushed his fingers along Maxwell’s palm again. The Anchor flickered, a brief flash of green light and enough power to make the hairs on Dorian’s arm stand on end.

‘I’ve heard about that,’ said the healer quietly. ‘People say that Andraste herself gave it to him.’

‘Do they?’ said Dorian. He didn’t contradict her.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she said.

‘This poison,’ said Dorian. ‘Have you truly never seen anything like _it_ before?’

‘No,’ said the elf. ‘I have seen many poisons before, but nothing like this. I’ve tried to use magic to identify it, but I cannot. Whatever it is, it’s not common to the south. I did wonder my lord, if perhaps you might recognise some of the properties, being from… that is to say…’

‘Being from Tevinter,’ Dorian finished for her. He tried to summon up some affronted outrage on behalf of his home country, but found nothing. Besides, it wasn’t as though she was wrong. Poisons were not uncommon among the altus classes.

Dorian personally knew nothing of the subject however – either the administering of such things, or the likely cures. Somebody had tried to poison his father once, when Dorian had been just a child. It had been a clumsy effort, and Halward Pavus had survived, but Dorian had never forgotten the way he’d looked lying in his enormous bed, Dorian’s mother sitting stone-faced next to him in pretended grief.

There was nothing false about the grief now gnawing away at Dorian. He stooped and brushed a gentle kiss across Maxwell’s forehead. The healer looked away politely, pretending to be suddenly absorbed with rearranging the contents of her bag.

He was just straightening up when the door opened and Cullen stepped into the room. ‘Dorian,’ he said. ‘We’ve had word about the assassin.’

‘And?’ Dorian demanded at once.

Cullen frowned and shook his head. ‘He’s dead.’

…

The body of Trevelyan’s would-be murderer was being kept in a prison. It was near the Summer Bazaar, and usually housed the condemned as they awaited their appointment with the noose. When the Inquisition arrived, they found the place crawling with guards.

‘Are they afraid he’ll come back to life and try to finish the job?’ Dorian muttered darkly as the sea of armoured men and women parted respectfully to let them through.

The captain of the guard showed them personally to the corpse. They walked through cool stone passageways, moving swiftly past the condemned cells. Eyes watched them from the gloom. One woman, sitting in chains, scowled and spat at them as they passed her by.  

‘In there,’ said the captain when they arrived at the furthest cell of all. ‘The Lady Seeker is waiting for you.’

Dorian and Cullen entered. Sera, despite her earlier enthusiasm to see the ‘slimy dead bastard’ elected to remain outside. Sure enough, Cassandra was already there, leaning against the wall and staring fixedly at the body which lay on a wooden pallet in the middle of the room.

She straightened up as they entered. ‘His Worship…’ she said at once.

‘Stable,’ said Cullen. ‘For now, at least.’

‘For now,’ Dorian repeated him gloomily. The dead man looked to be no more than twenty, face still bearing the scars of adolescent acne. He had a milky white complexion than Dorian associated with Ferelden, and a thick head of chestnut hair. He had dark blue robes on, hard-wearing stuff made of leather and linen. Around his neck was a hefty brass amulet. 

‘Do we know who he is?’ Dorian asked.

Cassandra shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. There was nothing in his pockets except a few coins.’

‘How did he die?’ asked Cullen.

‘He fought against the guards, refused to let himself be taken alive. He wished to die, I think. He must have known he’d face the noose otherwise.’

Or worse. How much easier to simply render him Tranquil, and then have him divulge all his secrets.

‘So we have nothing,’ Dorian said bitterly.

‘I refuse to accept that,’ said Cassandra. ‘There are three mages on their way here from the White Spire. If he visited there, then they might be able to identify him. Even now guards are asking in taverns about anyone seen behaving oddly …’

‘In Val Royeaux?’ Cullen interrupted. ‘You cannot be serious. Odd behaviour describes half the damned population of the city.’

‘Perhaps he was just a lone madman,’ Dorian said, feeling the cold grip of despair beginning to take him. After all, there seemed to be no shortage of lunatics around these days.

‘No,’ said Cullen firmly. ‘Someone went to the trouble of hiring assassins. Someone with enough money to pay the Antivan Crows. There’s something larger at work here, some grand design at play, we just have to figure out what it is.’

The door to the cell creaked open, and Sera stuck her head in. ‘What’s going on then?’ she said. ‘Do you know who the snivelling little arse-biscuit is yet? Does he have any rotten little friends I can stick…’ she trailed off, eyes narrowing as she stared down at the snow white face of the dead man. A flicker of recognition crossed her face.

‘What is it?’ Dorian asked her. She stepped further in, and reached out towards the corpse. Her long fingers closed around the brass amulet the dead man had around his neck. It was unusual, with a design Dorian had never seen before. The image of a hand, an elfroot leaf carved into the palm. The brass was scratched and tarnished, evidence of rough treatment.

‘I’ve seen this before,’ Sera said. 

‘What?’ said Cullen at once. ‘Are you sure?’

Sera stepped away from the body. ‘Yeah, I’m sure. It was down at the docks. There was this whole bunch of mages there. They all had necklaces like that on.’  

‘The docks?’ said Cassandra sharply. ‘What were you doing at the docks? Explain.’

‘I’d heard that there were some mages down there, making life difficult for the little people,’ said Sera. ‘You know, scaring people and suchlike. Being all magey and whatnot. So me and some of my friends went down there to investigate.’

‘And what did you discover?’ Cassandra demanded.

‘A bunch of ‘em holed up in this house, doing things they shouldn’t be doing. Blood magic and that. But someone had beaten us to it. The place was on fire, and there was a bunch of people running about like headless chickens.’ She shrugged. ‘Had a quick look see, make sure nobody was inside. A bunch of people got together, put the fire out.’

‘What happened to the mages?’ Cullen said. 

‘Scarpered, didn’t they? Dunno where.’ 

‘And you’re sure the amulets were the same?’ Cassandra asked.  

‘I’m sure,’ said Sera. Her expression turned stormy. ‘If I’d know they was going to try an’ kill his Worshipfulness I would’ve stuck some arrows in the little ratbags when I had a chance.’

Dorian’s mind raced with this new information. What would a group of mages want to kill the Herald of Andraste for? The Inquisition _sheltered_ the mages. And if they _had_ been at the docks, where were they _now_?

‘This house at the docks,’ he said. ‘Do you remember where it was?’

‘Course I do,’ said Sera.

Cullen nodded, and pointedly put his hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Then let’s waste no more time,’ he said sternly.

…

The house was in the seediest, most disreputable part of the city’s sprawling docklands. The narrow streets were filled with drunken sailors and various criminal lowlife. Eyes watched the four of them suspiciously from high windows and squalid corners.

‘What is that _smell_?’ Dorian demanded as they traipsed through the winding alleyways. The beautiful day had transformed as the afternoon wore on, and now there was a thick layer of darkening cloud above them. A certain humid tension in the air suggested a storm was on its way.

‘We’re probably happier not knowing,’ Cullen muttered darkly.

The house itself was a crumbling ruin, crammed between a brothel on one side and a sailor’s doss house on the other. The whole lot backed onto a dilapidated warehouse that looked as though one day soon it might collapse and take the entire rest of the street with it.

Dorian stopped short when he saw it. It was much the same as the other hovels they’d passed on their way through the backstreets, apart from the fact that the badly whitewashed front was _covered_ in blood. It looked like it had been thrown up against the walls.

‘See?’ said Sera. ‘Told you they was up to stuff they shouldn’t be. And that’s not all.’

She pointed at the door. Around the frame, daubed in white paint, were runes – also liberally smeared in blood. Dorian got closer for a better look. Something was not right here. The runes were amateurishly done, and on top of that they were complete nonsense. It was as though someone had just opened a book of magic and copied down whatever they found inside without understanding any of it.

‘No mage did this,’ he announced. ‘It’s gibberish. None of these runes belong together.’

‘You are certain?’ said Cassandra, striding forward to stand next to Dorian and examine the markings for herself.

‘Absolutely,’ said Dorian. ‘It’s nonsense.’

‘Perhaps an apprentice…’

‘Even an apprentice would know better,’ said Dorian insistently. ‘In the Imperium a _child_ would know better. Whoever wrote these had no understanding of magic whatsoever.’

‘No, that’s wrong,’ said Sera. ‘They _were_ mages. Before they ran off some of ‘em were trying to put the fire out with magic.’

‘And all this blood,’ said Dorian. ‘It’s just chucked around the place. That’s not how magic works. And what kind of a malificarum _advertises_ the fact by covering their house in blood?’

Cassandra reached out and dragged one finger through the dried blood. The metal of her gauntlet made it flake off in great chunks. ‘It could be pig’s blood,’ she conceded.

Sera was glaring at the house now, hands formed into angry fists at her sides. ‘Are you telling me,’ she said. ‘That this was a set-up?’

‘It could be,’ said Cassandra.

‘Andraste’s tits!’ Sera cursed loudly. Her face had gone red. ‘If I had known…’ She kicked a broken cobblestone, sending it flying. ‘Someone’s been telling lies.’

‘Let’s see if we can’t find out who,’ Dorian said. He was feeling anxious. It had taken them some time to get down to the docks. Nobody knew they were here. If something happened to Trevelyan, if – Maker forbid – the poison got the better of him… No messenger would find them until they returned to the Cathedral.

Cassandra banged loudly on the door of the house with her fist, but received no answer. The place was completely silent, with no signs of life. She pounded on the door again. A few curious heads poked out of the neighbouring properties.

Still there was no answer. Without hesitation, Cassandra promptly broke the door clean off its hinges. The curious heads swiftly retreated.

It was gloomy inside the house. Someone had hung thick blankets over the windows to keep out the light – or more likely, to keep out any inquisitive eyes. Cullen pulled them down, letting in just enough daylight to see properly by.

Despite its outwardly shambolic appearance, the house itself was fairly clean. The rear had been touched by the fire, but not too badly. It seemed that the effort to put it out had been a swift one. Not surprising. All the buildings round the docks were packed so closely together, that once one was aflame it wouldn’t be long until they all were. The neighbours would have had a strong motivation to pitch in.

With a wince Dorian recalled the warehouse fire at Parnasse. He hoped no innocent bystanders had been too badly hurt.

‘How exactly did you hear about these mages?’ Cassandra asked her as they looked around the place. It looked like it had been largely stripped clean. A handful of abandoned bed rolls suggested that there had been at least six people living here. There were some dried herbs stored in a wicker basket, and a few pieces of parchment scattered on the floor.

‘Friend of a friend,’ said Sera vaguely. ‘Don’t know who exactly, that’s not how it works. Said there was trouble down at the docks, some nasty mages up to no good. You know, making trouble for the kind of people who can’t complain to the city guard, if you know what I mean.’

‘Criminals,’ said Cassandra with obvious distaste.

‘S’right,’ said Sera. She scowled. ‘Cept it was all a lot of balls wasn’t it?’

A complete search of the house turned up very little else. Either the mages had returned to retrieve all their belongings, or – more likely – the place had been thoroughly ransacked and looted by the locals. The fire had claimed a couple of rooms, burning through the roof and exposing the ruin to the air. There was nothing of any significance to be found in the charcoaled remnants.

‘There’s nothing here,’ Cullen said at last, shaking his head. ‘Maker help me, I thought there had to be _something_.’

‘Perhaps we could ask the residents…’ Cassandra started.

‘They won’t tell you anything,’ Sera interrupted her. ‘Trust me. Nobody round here is ratting on anyone. Keep your head down and your gob shut, that’s how it works.’

Cassandra bristled. ‘I do not intend to give them the option to…’ She fell silent. She’d heard it – they’d all heard it. The door onto the street opening.

All four of them turned to watch as a young woman stepped into the hovel. She was wearing a heavy woollen cloak – too hot for this weather, but it had a voluminous hood that covered her face almost completely. Around her neck, just visible above the cloak’s plain clasp, was a brass amulet just like the one around the neck of the dead assassin.

She took one long look at the four of them, and bolted.

It took a moment for everyone’s brains to catch up with events. Then Sera suddenly shot forward, and the others followed on in her wake. Cassandra and Cullen, weighed down by armour and weapons, struggled to sprint. Dorian’s robes were hardly conductive to fast movement either, and the burn on his arm pulled painfully as he ran.

Sera, on the other hand, moved like a charging halla. She caught up with the fleeing woman in a matter of moments, leaping half on top of her and tussling her to the ground. The woman fought back, and for a moment they sprawled out in the street, each trying to gain the upper hand on the other. Sera was _laughing_.

Dorian sensed the minute change in the air as the stranger prepared to do magic. Without a stave it would be undirected, wild – but still dangerous. He had a spilt second to act. So he hit her in the face with his staff.

It wasn’t exactly elegant, but it did the job. The woman yelped, followed up with a lot of very angry cursing as she continued to fight to free herself of Sera. Then Cassandra arrived on the scene. She drew her sword, the gleaming edge held just inches away from the stranger’s face. At once things calmed down considerably.

‘Stand up,’ said Cassandra in an iron tone. ‘Slowly.’

Scowling furiously at them, the young woman did so, keeping her empty hands held up where they could be seen. Her cloak had fallen open during her scuffle with Sera, revealing mage robes underneath. They were the light, practical kind, Dorian noted, not the heavy, cumbersome clothing often favoured by scholars.   

Cassandra kept her sword raised. ‘Who are you?’ she said. Cullen had moved to stand alongside her, his own hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword – although he let it rest in its scabbard for now. The woman’s eyes moved sharply between the two of them, and Dorian thought he caught a glimpse of real fear in them. He didn’t know if there was such a thing as standing like a Templar, but if there was, Cassandra and Cullen were doing it. There was definite aggressive looming going on.

‘You know who I am,’ the woman spat angrily. She glared at them all with palpable loathing. ‘Come to finish off the job have you?’ she demanded. ‘Wasn’t it enough to harass us? To drive us out? To _kill_ us?’

‘Hah!’ said Sera at once. ‘Don’t you go getting all high and mighty! Not with what one of your lot did to…’

Cassandra clicked her tongue in irritation. ‘Quiet,’ she snapped at Sera, before turning her attention back to the mage. ‘What is your name?’

The woman pressed her lips together defiantly. It was clear she had no intention of sharing any information.

‘We’re the Inquisition,’ Dorian said, coming to stand slightly in front of Cassandra and Cullen. Aggressive interrogation was obviously only going to make the stranger clam up even more, and Dorian wasn’t sure that the two of them knew any other way to make people talk.

‘The Inquisition?’ said the woman, looking uncertain for the first time. She looked Dorian up and down, noting his (burnt and dirty) robes and the staff in his hand.

‘You have heard about what happened to the Herald of Andraste?’ Dorian asked her. The woman nodded silently. ‘The man who attacked him was a mage. He had an amulet around his neck. One just like _that_.’ Dorian gestured with the tip of his staff to the brass amulet around the woman’s own throat.

Her eyes widened, and her hand flew to the brass image of the hand and elfroot leaf. ‘That’s impossible,’ she said. ‘None of us would ever…’ she trailed off, looking between them all. She appeared genuinely bewildered and afraid - but then that might just be a clever act.

‘None of who?’ Dorian asked.

‘Not in the street,’ said the woman, eyeing the surrounding buildings nervously. ‘Let’s go inside.’

…

‘We’re healers,’ the woman – Marguerite was the name she’d given – said, removing her amulet and holding it out for them all to see. ‘This is our symbol. We were all together in the Cumberland Circle. When it fell we banded together, decided to use our abilities to help people. We thought it might show the people that mages need not be feared, that we are capable of great acts of healing as well as destruction.’ She laughed derisively.

‘What brought you to Val Royeaux?’ Cullen asked.

‘The civil war,’ Marguerite said. ‘We gave aid to both sides. We asked for nothing in return, but some of the soldiers were grateful. A chevalier gave us this house. We thought we might use it as a place people could come to seek help. The people who really need it.’

‘So what happened?’ Dorian asked. ‘Why is half the house burnt down? Why is there blood all over the damned wall?’

‘At first things went well. Then, about a couple of weeks ago, it started. Threats. Intimidation. The people in the street began to avoid us. There were rumours – that we were practising blood magic, that we were Tevinter spies, that we consorted with demons…’ She shook her head. ‘Then the blood on the walls. We heard them doing it, late at night. One of us tried to intervene… they killed him.’ Tears began to well up in her eyes. ‘Those bastards even stole his body.’

‘Who?’ said Cullen.

Marguerite shrugged listlessly. ‘I don’t know. Men and women. Strangers. They kept to the shadows.’ 

'You could have fought back...' said Dorian. 

'We're healers. If we wanted to fight, we would have joined the Rebellion.'

‘Why did you not inform the city guard?’ Cassandra demanded.

Marguerite laughed without humour, mouth twisted up in a bitter frown. ‘We tried. They didn’t care. They made it clear that nobody was going to listen to us, and that if we complained too loudly things would only get worse. They were paid off, I know it. Their captain, he takes bribes from everyone.’

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. ‘What is the name of this captain?’ she asked.

‘Guard Captain Blois,’ said Marguerite. ‘You won’t get anything out of him. He’s as slippery as an eel.’

Cassandra crossed her arms and glowered. ‘I do not intend to ask nicely,’ she said.  


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've posted a hefty portion of this now, so it seems like a good point to thank everyone who's commented and left kudos. It really is fabulous of you, and is much appreciated.

The guardhouse for the docks of Val Royeaux was a dingy, ramshackle building huddled around a training yard. Colourful pennants, celebrating the ascension of the new Divine, hung from its walls. They looked out of place on such a shabby frontage. 

The place was crammed full of people. There were five to a cell, and even more prisoners lay in irons on the floors. A powerful stench of vomit and stale beer hung heavily in the air, like a thick miasma. By comparison the fishy stink of the Fallow Mire seemed positively refreshing.

Guard Captain Blois was in his office. He was a fat, sweaty man, desperately in need of a shave. It was tempting to write him off as an idiot, until you saw his eyes. They were sharp and cunning, and gave nothing away. He straightened up in his chair as they entered, and then straightened up even further when the guard introduced them as representatives of the Inquisition.

‘What can I do for you Lady Seeker?’ he asked Cassandra smoothly. There was a strong smell of cheap brandy about the room, and Dorian’s eagle eye caught sight of a collection of empty bottles in a crate tucked away in the far corner.

Cassandra told him about the harassment of the mages, the way their house had been deliberately set ablaze, the murder of one of their number. Blois listened to it all with a solemn, serious expression on his face – although he had begun to sweat more Dorian noticed. His hands were twitchy too. Any doubts he might have harboured about this man knowing all about the mage’s plight evaporated instantly. Guard Captain Blois was a man with something to hide.

‘I’m afraid I know nothing about any of this Lady Seeker…’ Blois said. ‘The docks are very large, and as you no doubt saw on your way in here, we have no shortage of criminals to apprehend. It is impossible for us to police every little incident…’

‘Cold blooded murder is hardly a little incident,’ Dorian interjected. Blois glanced over at him, and then deliberately and pointedly chose to ignore him. Dorian bristled indignantly.

‘I will of course investigate the incident,’ Blois continued. ‘But there are so many criminals in the docks, all coming and going with each fresh tide… I fear tracking down the perpetrators may prove impossible – even for the mighty Inquisition.’

He smiled at Cassandra. She stared back stonily. Slowly she stepped forward so that she towered over Blois’s desk. She put both fists down on its surface, bracing herself and leaning forward so that she loomed imposingly right over him. He shrank back into his chair.

‘Guard Captain Blois,’ she said. ‘It has been suggested that you take bribes. That in exchange for money you permit criminals to evade justice. That you turn a blind eye to perversions of law and order right under your own nose.’

‘Lies!’ said Blois. ‘Nothing but lies, I assure you.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Cassandra. ‘Perhaps a review of your guardhouse’s operations are in order. I’m sure the Empress’s counsel would agree. I ask you again, what do you know about those who attacked the mage house. Do not lie to me, or I will make your life _extremely_ uncomfortable Guard Captain.’ She raised one fist a couple of inches and slammed it back down onto the desk.

Blois blanched, but he didn’t falter. ‘Lieutenant Florant!’ he bellowed.

The office door opened and in came a young man in guard uniform. He had a swollen, bruised eye, and his uniform sleeve had been torn ragged. Dorian guessed he was responsible for arresting some of the more disruptive drunks that currently filled the guardhouse’s cells to bursting.

‘Come here Florant,’ Blois ordered. The lieutenant crossed the room to stand behind Blois’s shoulder. He looked outwardly calm, but there was a certain stiffness to the set of his shoulders that suggested an underlying tension.

‘Florant, do we know anything about a house full of mages near to the Esplace Warehouse?’ Blois asked, never taking his eyes off Cassandra.

There was a brief hesitation, but then… ‘No sir,’ said Florant, gaze fixed firmly forward.

‘Do we know anything about the murder of a mage in the docklands?’

‘No sir.’

‘You see Seeker?’ said Blois, rising from his chair and smiling. ‘Florant here is my right hand man. If anybody would know the answers to your questions, it’s him. And he knows nothing.’

Blois reached up to pat Florant companionably on the shoulder. Florant recoiled briefly, but managed to control himself enough that Blois didn’t notice. Dorian did though, and took note. Lieutenant Florant did not like Captain Blois.

Dorian didn’t like Captain Blois either. He’d had just about enough of this absurdity. Blois clearly knew far more than he was letting on. If he knew something, _anything_ that might lead them to Trevelyan’s would-be murderers then he was damn well going to tell them, even if Dorian had to drag every word out by force.

‘Look you snivelling little bastard,’ he began, striding forward, swinging his staff around so that the sharp, bladed end hovered a mere handful of inches from Blois’s throat. ‘You know something, and you’re going to tell us right now.’

Blois’s eyes followed the tip of the blade, before suddenly blazing with self-righteous anger. ‘Is this how the Inquisition operates?’ he said loudly. ‘Allowing mages to go around threatening people at will? And you have the audacity to accuse _me_ of a failure to do my job correctly? Pah – I will speak of this no longer. I’ve told you what you wished to know Seeker, and that is the end of it. This is Val Royeaux, and I am a captain of the guard – the Inquisition has no jurisdiction here.’

Dorian snarled and thrust the staff blade forward a couple more inches. At Blois’s side, Florant drew his sword. The tension in the room skyrocketed. Slowly and carefully, Cullen stepped forward and wrapped his hand around the staff, gently but firmly pushing the blade away from Blois’s throat. Dorian continued to glower menacingly at Blois, but allowed Cullen to quietly disarm him.

‘I think you should leave,’ Blois said, trying for commanding in his tone, but hitting anxiously terrified instead.

‘This is not over,’ Cassandra warned him.

…

The four of them walked back to the Cathedral in silence. The streets were quiet, and there was an uneasy, uncertain mood in the air. Dorian took some comfort in that – if Trevelyan had died then word would most certainly have leaked out. There would be nothing quiet about the streets of Val Royeaux if – if, if, _if_ – that happened.

They were shown straight through to the Divine’s private quarters. Cassandra and Cullen went to report their disappointingly sparse findings to Leliana. Dorian on the other hand made a beeline straight for Trevelyan’s sickroom.

He slipped in quietly. Apart from the dying man in the bed, the exceedingly comfortable bedroom was empty. Trevelyan was impossibly paler than the last time Dorian had seen him. An unhealthy sheen glistened on his forehead, and his short, dark hair was darker still with sweat.

Dorian pressed the back of his hand to Maxwell’s cheek. It was unnaturally warm. The man was running a high fever. His breathing, always alarmingly shallow when he was asleep, was now almost undetectable.

Dorian sat down on a chair left next to the bed. The healer’s bag of potions and poultices was still on the floor. She was somewhere nearby then. That was comforting at least.

Trevelyan’s hand was still lying palm upward on the luxurious mattress. Dorian slipped his own hand carefully into his, curling his fingers gently around Maxwell’s knuckles.

‘I love you,’ he said, and then laughed brokenly. Of course, _now_ the words came easily. Now that there was nobody to hear him, now that the object of his undying affection was unconscious and hovering disturbingly close to death’s door.

‘I love you,’ he said again, just to hear the words out loud. He ran the pad of his thumb across the curve of Maxwell’s palm. ‘You’ve not said it back. Rude of you, really. So now you understand you _have_ to recover, because it would be simply unspeakable of you not to return the sentiment. I mean, how could you not? I am so very dashing after all.’

The joke fell flat, even to Dorian’s own ears. He felt traitorous tears beginning to threaten, and tried viciously to summon back the boiling rage he’d felt earlier, to use it to drown the horrible despair that was beginning to take him.

Quite without thinking about it, he began to talk. He spoke about Tevinter, about his hopes and dreams for the place – hopes and dreams that Juliana Erimond had managed to rekindle, even if everything about her had turned out to be one enormous lie.

‘I’d like to go back one day,’ he admitted quietly. ‘You’d hate it there though. If the Game here is too much, then Minrathous would turn your stomach. But I promise you, there’s good in the Imperium.’

He described at length the architectural wonder of the sprawling, subterranean Dwarven Embassy. He talked about the secret passageways of the Arcanist’s Hall, and the lavish statues of Andraste in the Argent Spire. He recounted the time in his youth when he and some friends he’d led astray had wandered into the catacombs beneath Minrathous, and spent hours wandering – completely lost – until Dorian’s furious father had arrived to rescue them.

‘It’s all so old,’ he said forlornly. ‘They don’t go in for innovation in Minrathous anymore. They’re all just clinging onto past glories, petrified to let go in case no new splendour awaits them on the horizon. In case the Imperium has stagnated so damn far that it had nothing left to offer this blighted world.’

He sighed gloomily, and leaned forward in his chair to brush a kiss across the hand he was hold in his. ‘Young blood,’ he said. ‘That’s what it needs. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Trevelyan remained silent. The ever so slight rise and fall of his chest was the only indication that he was even alive.

‘I met a young man in the White Spire,’ Dorian continued, voice suddenly hoarse as he fought against the lump in his throat. ‘He was fascinated by Tevinter. Had all these foolish, idealistic ideas about the future. You’d have liked him.’

Dorian recalled Greville’s naïve optimism with a faint smile. He wondered if he’d ever been that naïve himself – perhaps, once upon a time, when he’d been Alexius’s apprentice. They’d had such grand ideas the two of them, before everything had gone so completely to hell.

He hoped the young mages in the Spire were alright, and that Cullen and Vivienne’s fears about reprisals were unfounded. But he suspected his hope to be a vain one. If Dorian’s time in the south had taught him anything, it was that there was no end to the suspicion in which some southerners held mages. Centuries of locking them away in towers, like they were infected with some horrible, infectious plague, had taken its toll. You only had to look at the appalling treatment of the healers in the docks to see the consequences.

There was a soft knock at the door separating the bedroom from Leliana’s little parlour. It opened, and in slipped Josephine. She came to stand at the foot of the bed, watching Trevelyan with a solemn expression.

‘It’s late Dorian,’ she said at last. ‘You need to rest.’

He felt exhausted. The drug induced stupor in which he’d spent the previous night had been no substitute for real sleep. His body felt as though it weighed a ton, and he could _feel_ the bags forming under his eyes.

‘I’ll stay here,’ he said immediately.

‘Dorian…’ Josephine said gently. She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. ‘You will be no use to anyone if you are asleep upon your feet. Exhausting yourself will not save him, you must rest.’

‘I’ll stay here,’ Dorian repeated himself, a steely edge in his voice.

Josephine sighed. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘We are to go to the Maison Vaille, but will return here at dawn. Please, do get some sleep.’

For the most part Dorian was left alone after that. Leliana came in once, said nothing, and then left. The healer returned to check again on her patient, and pronounced that his deterioration was still being held in check – just. A lay sister brought Dorian some food, and replaced the candles that were burning low.

Dorian wished they were back in Skyhold. Back in Trevelyan’s bedroom at the top of the keep tower, with its admittedly very impressive view, but downright frigid temperatures. Temperatures that Trevelyan, personally oblivious to the cold, made all the worse with his habit of leaving the balcony doors wide open.

Every night Dorian stayed there – which, Maker, was most nights now – he had to stoke the fire with magic before the room reached anything approaching an acceptable degree of warmth. Certainly before it reached any kind of temperature he was prepared to take his clothes off in.

Skyhold was cold, it was in the middle of nowhere, and the society was about as sophisticated as a damp dishcloth. But it was the very beating heart of the Inquisition, it was where they had _control_. Right then Dorian felt very, very out of control.

Occasionally, when he was bored, he’d wander through Skyhold’s courtyard garden and hear Mother Giselle and her sisters singing the Chant. He fancied now, even at this late hour, that he could hear it being sung somewhere in the belly of the Cathedral. It echoed through the stone walls, running through the vast building like lifeblood.

Whether real or imagined, Dorian drifted off to sleep listening to it.

…

He woke to an ache in his back and shoulders. Sleeping in the chair had done them no favours at all, and when he tried to move every muscle in his upper body protested violently. He shifted forward, ignoring the pain in his spine. Something had woken him. Raised voices nearby.

The elven healer was back in the room, bent over the bed. Trevelyan looked even worse than he had earlier. His pillow was damp with sweat, which was also lying in a heavy sheen across his feverish brow.

Dorian reached out and took his hand. It was cold and clammy against Dorian’s palm.

‘He’s worse,’ he said, voice rough with sleep.

The healer glanced over at him and nodded gravely.  

‘There’s truly nothing you can do?’

She shook her head. ‘All I can do is strengthen him as best I can,’ she said. ‘Lord Trevelyan is a young man, strong and healthy. He has as good a chance as anybody of pulling through this. And besides…’ she hesitated, bowing her head solemnly. ‘Andraste herself watches over him.’

The loud voices in the other room caught Dorian’s attention again. The words were muffled, but he recognised Leliana’s voice among them. They seemed to be having an argument.

‘What’s that all about?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know, serah,’ the healer said.

Dorian went to investigate. It was the middle of the night. Whatever had Leliana up at this hour had to be important.

He found her surrounded by three of her lay sisters, and an elderly Grand Cleric. Leliana was adjusting the Divine’s impractical headdress. She was fully dressed in her traditional robes, and one of the lay sisters was holding a cloak ready for her.

‘This is absurd,’ said the Grand Cleric. ‘Most Holy, I beg you to reconsider. The Lord Inquisitor lies dying in the very next room, and now _you_ would willingly place yourself in harm’s way. It cannot be permitted.’

‘Permitted?’ said Leliana calmly, allowing the lay sister to drape the cloak over her shoulders. ‘Forgive me, but I am not asking permission. I must go.’

‘It is too dangerous!’ said the Grand Cleric. ‘Please, at least allow enough time for me to arrange a full guard to accompany you…’

‘Time we do not have,’ Leliana answered. ‘The Cathedral guard will do. I must place my faith in the Maker. May he watch over us all.’

‘What’s going on?’ Dorian asked loudly, making his presence known. They all turned to look at him. The Grand Cleric pursed her lips disapprovingly.

‘There is a disturbance at the White Spire,’ said Leliana. ‘A crowd has gathered. I fear things may turn violent.’

‘A mob?’ said Dorian. ‘How many?’ This was, he realized, exactly what had been feared. Retaliation for the attack on Trevelyan. Or perhaps that was just a handy excuse, a way for the people of Val Royeaux to justify their irrational hated of mages. A sudden surge of angry contempt gripped Dorian. Damn the south - damn their wilful ignorance, and damn their crazed paranoia. They thought themselves so superior to the tyranny of Tevinter, and yet still bloodthirsty mobs roamed their streets to harangue the innocent.

‘I don’t know,’ said Leliana, fastening the cloak tightly around herself. ‘I shall see soon enough.’

‘You’re _going_?’

‘I must try to calm the people,’ Leliana said. ‘Help them to see reason, to find mercy and peace in their hearts tonight instead of anger and hatred.’

‘It is reckless foolishness,’ said the Grand Cleric. ‘You are Divine – you cannot simply throw yourself into harm’s way on a whim.’

‘This is not a whim,’ said Leliana, and there was steel in her voice. ‘And what is the purpose of the Divine, if not to give guidance to the people? If not to take the hard road when called upon? Justinia taught me that. She never shied away from risk.’

‘And look where it got her!’ the Grand Cleric snapped. ‘Dead, and the world thrown into turmoil.’

‘This is hardly comparable,’ said Leliana coldly.

‘Most Holy, they are just a few mages,’ said the Grand Cleric desperately. ‘Compared to the bloodshed of the Rebellion, does this really require your personal intervention?’

Fire gleamed in Leliana’s eyes as she rounded on the old woman. ‘Each life is precious in the eyes of the Maker,’ she said. ‘The life of a mage as much as any other. I do not intend, your Holiness, to make the same mistake as my predecessors in that regard. Now there is no more time to waste.’

She marched from the room, her lay sisters falling into line behind her. Dorian fell into place at her side.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. If there was anything, however small, he might be able to do to help, then he wanted to be there.

‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Leliana quietly, her hand briefly wrapping itself around his wrist and squeezing gently.

…

Dorian could hear the crowd gathered around the Spire before he saw them. He walked alongside Leliana, completely surrounded by the armoured guard of the Grand Cathedral. There were Templars marching too – whatever reservations Leliana might once have held about Templars at the White Spire, the immediacy of the situation appeared to have done away with them.

It was worse than he had hoped, but not as bad as he feared. The crowd was a few hundred strong, but so far their efforts seemed to have extended only towards hurling objects at the Spire’s thick, almost impenetrable walls. The great doors remained closed.

Many of the crowd were still clutching their flagons of ale. Dorian didn’t know whether to take heart from that or not. Drunks were uncoordinated, poor fighters – but the drink also made them bold to the point of foolishness. An otherwise sensible man might, with enough beer in his belly, decide to take on a fully armed Templar with nothing more than an old sword half rusted with age.

Lurking around the edges of the crowd were members of the city guard, keeping a healthy distance between themselves and the mob. Dorian couldn’t blame them – they were hopelessly outnumbered. Someone must have sent word of this to the Imperial Palace. Eventually the chevaliers would arrive. _Eventually_. Who knew what harm might be done in the meantime?

Dorian glanced upwards at the Spire, noting the lights at the windows on the high floors. He thought of the mages up there, looking out down at the hostile crowd gathered around them. He thought of Greville, the young mage he’d met in the library. He’d thought the boy naïve, much too innocent of the true nature of the world. This incident would be an unpleasant lesson that Dorian wished he could have been spared.

The crowd stirred restlessly as the Chantry retinue arrived. Some people, hidden amongst the press, yelled typically florid Orlesian insults. There was jeering, shouting, the sound of glass shattering. Dorian held his breath. The anticipation of violence hung heavily in the air. It was almost a palpable thing. All it would need was one spark, one drunk idiot more drunken and idiotic than the rest.

There was a raised platform in the wide boulevard outside the Spire, still covered in colourful flags and pennants embroidered with the Sunburst and the Valmont family emblem. The previous day there would have been celebrations here. Shows would have been performed on the platform for the amusement of the crowd as they waited for the Divine’s procession to pass them by. The same people that would have been cheering then were baying for the mage’s blood now. It turned Dorian’s stomach.

The cathedral guard led them to the platform. Four Templars climbed it, looming over the crowd. Then Leliana ascended, unbuckling her cloak and standing before them in the full regalia of the Divine. In the flaming torchlight the gilt on her robes glittered.

A hush fell over the crowd. Just at the very sight of her Dorian could sense some of the tension in the air dissipate. Leliana had always been able to command a room when she so chose, but this was something else. This was real power. Power over people’s hearts.

‘Listen!’ she cried out, her voice carrying above the din. ‘Listen to me!’

Dorian only vaguely heard what she said after that. He slipped out the back of the press of guards. They let him go without question – they were here to protect the Divine, not some Tevinter mage tag-along.

In other circumstances, Dorian’s robes would have been an unfortunate marker of what he was to this hostile mob of people. But his current clothing was burnt, bloodied, torn – and perhaps most mercifully of all, the work of an Orlesian tailor. He looked less like a mage and more like a rich merchant who’d been mugged in a dark alley somewhere. Nobody paid him any mind, except for a few vindictively amused glances at his ruined finery.

He caught a few of Leliana’s words. There was mention of the Maker, of peace, understanding, and the dawning of a new age. He caught the words ‘The Herald of Andraste’ and forced himself to stop listening, swallowing painfully around the sudden lump in his throat. Whatever she was saying, it seemed to be working. The crowd was listening, rapt. For most of them it would have been the first time they’d ever heard the Divine speak, and certainly the first time they’d heard her address them directly.

Emboldened by the arrival of the Divine, the city guard had rallied. A dozen of them had taken up duty at the Spire’s gates, shields held high and hands on the pommels of their swords.

‘I need to get in,’ Dorian said to them plainly.

The one who seemed to be in charge, a woman in a lieutenant’s uniform, looked him up and down slowly. She didn’t appear to be very impressed.

‘Get back,’ she said imperiously. ‘The White Spire is the property of the Orlesian Empire. When the Empress’s chevaliers arrive you will all regret this trouble!’

Dorian rolled his eyes. ‘Look, I’m with the Inquisition alright? I’m not here to attack the bloody mages. Now let me in.’

The lieutenant crossed her arms and glared at him. ‘You expect me to believe you messere?’ she said. Her eyes slid judgementally over Dorian’s ruined clothing, the bags under his eyes, the bandaged wound on his shoulder.

Furtively, keeping his hand held close to his chest so that none of the enormous press of people behind him could see it, Dorian lit a small veilfire in the palm of his hand. The blue light flickered and danced for a moment, before it died away. The lieutenant watched it with a surprised expression.

‘Now do you believe I mean no harm to the mages?’ he demanded of her.

The woman frowned, fixing Dorian with a careful, considering stare. Then at last she nodded briskly and stepped back to pound her hand hard on the heavy gates.

…

The mages were gathered in the Spire’s uppermost floors. All told there seemed to be about twenty-five of them, a far cry from the days when the tower would have housed hundreds of people, both mages and Templars.

The younger ones, which Dorian noticed included Greville, were sat huddled together around a table. They looked afraid. One girl was openly crying, and being awkwardly comforted by her friends, who looked like they could do with someone to comfort them in turn. The older mages were more stoic. They’d seen this all before. Someone had opened a casket of wine.

Dorian brought them news of what was going on below. The knowledge that the Divine was present seemed to bring them great comfort. Gradually time dragged by and the noise from the street ebbed away, until at last the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon. Peering from the Spire’s high, narrow windows it was just possible to see that the mob had dispersed. Now the boulevard teemed with soldiers.

‘Almost makes you wish for the Templars back,’ said one mage gloomily, knocking back yet another goblet of wine.

As dawn broke, Dorian readied himself to leave. He’d lingered nearly two hours at the White Spire, waiting to ensure that the danger was fully past before leaving. His mind however kept treacherously returning to the Cathedral. He’d been away too long, and Trevelyan had been fading so badly the last time he’d seen him.

‘Messere?’ a voice said behind him. He turned to find Greville stood behind him, wringing his hands awkwardly. The poor boy looked exhausted.

‘What brings you here, messere?’ Greville asked. He managed a weak smile. ‘I would have thought any mage would be avoiding the White Spire tonight.’

‘Self-preservation was never my forte,’ said Dorian honestly. He looked the lad over critically, noting the wan tone of his face, the nervous sweat, and his hunched posture. ‘And how are _you_?’

‘Oh,’ said Greville. He shrugged listlessly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said flatly. ‘I always felt safe here. Even when it was still the Circle, I felt safe.’

‘Ah,’ said Dorian. He didn’t know what to say to that. If it had come down to it, the mob almost certainly wouldn’t have been able to get in. The Spire was a literal fortress. But he doubted that would be any comfort.

‘Things like this don’t happen in Tevinter, do they?’ Greville said, suddenly full of fire. He looked Dorian straight in the eye, some tumultuous emotion playing across his narrow, youthful face. ‘People respect mages there. They _understand_. Why are we all held accountable for the acts of a few, when out there they war and fight endlessly? It’s because they’re afraid of us! Because we have power that they don’t.’

Dorian was slightly taken aback by this tirade. But he couldn’t deny the truth of Greville’s words. He felt angry on the boy’s behalf, angry on behalf of _all_ the mages in the south. How the southerners had the audacity to call Tevinter barbaric – when they themselves locked people away all their lives for the crime of being born a mage, when they could murder a hundred people in cold blood and called it ‘an annulment’ rather than ‘a massacre’ - not to mention the stomach churning atrocity that was the Rite of Tranquillity…

‘No,’ he said. ‘Things like this don’t happen in Tevinter.’

…

Trevelyan was still alive. Still fighting for each breath, still as pale as snow and cold as the grave, but still alive. Josephine was sitting with him, perched on a chair next to the bed, a pile of official letters clutched in her hands. They were all unread, wax seals unbroken. Dorian caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes, but she summoned up a warm smile for him anyway.

‘I’ve brought you fresh clothes,’ she said. ‘And I’ve instructed that a bath be prepared for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dorian, coming to stand next to the bed, brushing his fingers lightly across Maxwell’s cheek. ‘You heard about what happened at the White Spire I suppose?’

‘Of course,’ said Josephine. ‘It is being put about as a minor incident, nothing more.’

‘Nothing more?’ snapped Dorian. ‘It was a bloody mob.’

‘The Empress does not want to be seen to have suffered even a momentary lapse of control in her own capital city,’ said Josephine. ‘I fear she did not foresee the passions the Inquisitor’s attempted murder would provoke until it was too late. There is to be a proclamation issued this morning announcing that Lord Trevelyan is alive, and that the assassination was a failure.’

‘He might still die yet,’ Dorian said darkly. His own stomach clenched painfully at the thought.

‘Celene has wagered that he will not, let us pray she has gambled wisely. She usually does.’ Josephine sighed sadly. ‘Leliana did well last night at least. She has been Divine a few days only, and already the people love her.’

‘Well, people are fickle bastards on the whole,’ said Dorian cynically.

…

The bath and the change of clothes helped Dorian feel more like himself. The hot water washed away the grime and took the ache out of his joints. It also made the long, narrow burn on his arm and shoulder sting. The soothing poultice that the travelling healer had applied had long since worn away.

He dressed, discarding his old clothes as probably beyond salvaging. He returned to the makeshift sickroom, intending to resume his forlorn vigil. If anything happened, if there was any change, he wanted to be there.

Josephine had left. The elven healer was stood over the bed, the back of one hand pressed to Trevelyan’s forehead. She straightened up as Dorian entered.

‘How is he?’ Dorian asked.

The elf tilted her head contemplatively. ‘A little better I think,’ she said. ‘His temperature has come down, and I believe his breathing is stronger too.’

A flicker of hope bloomed brightly in Dorian’s heart. He forced himself not to get too carried away with it. But he could see what she meant. There was a touch of colour in Trevelyan’s face, and his breathing did indeed seem stronger.

Dorian went to touch him, and the burn, made tight by the hot bath, pulled painfully. He winced, and the healer’s sharp eyes caught it at once.

‘Let me see,’ she insisted.

Trying not to jostle his injury, Dorian undid the fastenings of his jacket and shirt, tugging his arm free so that the healer could inspect the burn.

‘This was done by magic,’ she remarked, cool fingertips running gently over his overheated skin.

‘My own,’ Dorian admitted. ‘Rather sloppy I know, but I was in a bit of a tight spot.’

The healer finished her curt examination, and soon Dorian felt the warm glow of healing magic as she cast her hands over his arm. He admired those mages who had a talent for it. Restorative spells had never been Dorian’s forte, ever since he was a child. He just didn’t have the knack for it. Destructive magic, that was much more his area of speciality.

‘I never did ask your name,’ he said suddenly while the healer worked. It felt like an egregious oversight. The woman had saved his life, had perhaps saved Maxwell’s too, and he didn’t even know her name.

She smiled at him. ‘My name is Fabiana.’

‘Fabiana?’ said Dorian surprised. ‘That’s a name from the Imperium.’

‘Yes it is,’ she said. ‘I only left a few years ago. I lived in Qarinus.’

‘My family live in Qarinus,’ said Dorian.

‘I know,’ said Fabiana lightly. ‘You’re the son of Lord Halward Pavus.’

Dorian felt inordinately pleased to discover a fellow countryman in such an unexpected place. Tevinter had hung heavily in his thoughts these past few days, and his conversation with Greville at the Spire had brought it up afresh.

‘Did you hear about what happened at the White Spire last night?’ he asked Fabiana. His arm itched a little as the broken skin knitted seamlessly back together. The heat in the burn faded, like a cooling balm had been poured over it.

‘I did,’ said Fabiana. ‘People are upset. Afraid.’ She glanced solemnly at the unconscious figure in the bed. ‘May Andraste prove their fears unfounded.’

‘They hate mages,’ said Dorian bitterly.

Fabiana finished casting over his arm, stepping back as the last trace of roughened redness disappeared, leaving nothing but perfect dark skin behind. Not even a scar. She really did have a talent. It felt as good as new.

‘They call us backwards, and yet look at them,’ Dorian said, flexing his arm and shoulder, feeling no trace of discomfort or stiffness. ‘The Harrowing – have you ever heard of something so barbaric? Keeping mages caged away like beasts in a menagerie, to be taken out when needed. Because magic is meant to serve man, not rule him? Hah! How is that supposed to justify treating people like cattle? I’m not a fool, I know Tevinter is far from perfect. But at least there a mage can live freely, with dignity and respect.’

Fabiana just stared at him. There was a long, strangely tense pause. Then, moving slowly, she reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears. Her gently pointed ears. After that, without taking her eyes off Dorian’s, she rolled up the sleeves of her robe. Each thin, delicate wrist was marred by scars that wrapped right all the way around them. Scars from manacles that had been kept constantly too tight.

She looked at Dorian sadly, but kindly nonetheless. ‘A human mage can live freely serah,’ she said. ‘I did not.’

Dorian gaped like a fish out of water, and then – appalled that he could have been so stupid – he looked away sharply. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hurriedly, at a complete loss for what else to say. A truly horrible thought occurred to him.  ‘Sweet Maker, tell me it wasn’t _my_ family that…’

‘It wasn’t,’ Fabiana reassured him gently.

‘Still,’ Dorian said, full of agonising embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘Because you’re a good man,’ Fabiana said, patting him softly on the forearm. Incredibly, there was no rebuke at all in her expression that Dorian could see. ‘But I thought you should know – the south has many problems yes, and the way it views mages is wrong, I quite agree. But I have been far freer and happier here than I ever could have been in Tevinter.’

Dorian nodded, and managed a weak smile. ‘Of course. I quite understand.’

The painful awkwardness of the situation was mercifully ended when the door opened and Josephine returned. ‘Dorian,’ she said, gesturing for him to come with her. ‘Hurry. I've received a message from Cullen at the Maison Vaille. There is somebody there who claims to be able to help us.’ 


	10. Chapter 10

The someone who thought they could help turned out be Lieutenant Florant. He stood in one of the Maison Vaille’s sitting rooms, shifting uncomfortably on the spot and glancing awkwardly around at the lavish surroundings. He was still wearing his grimy, torn uniform, but his swollen eye had gone down at least – although it was still an unpleasant shade of purplish black.

He straightened up when Josephine and Dorian entered. Cullen was already in the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Zevran was sitting in an ornate armchair, using an evil looking little dagger to clean underneath his fingernails. Florant kept shooting him faintly alarmed looks out of the corner of his eye.  

‘The lieutenant has some information he wishes to share,’ said Cullen as Dorian entered. ‘Repeat what you told me.’

Florant ducked his head, embarrassed. ‘I lied to you yesterday,’ he said contritely. ‘Forgive me.’

‘So you _did_ know about the mages,’ said Dorian. He’d known they were lying.

‘I did,’ admitted Florant. ‘And so did Blois. It was exactly as the Seeker said, messere. The captain was paid to ignore the situation. Ten gold sovereigns. A great deal of money to bribe a guard.’

‘Why didn’t you say something yesterday?’ Dorian demanded angrily.               

‘Blois would ruin me,’ said Florant. ‘I am not proud that I lied, but I had no choice. He is a greedy, corrupt man – a stain on the pride of Val Royeaux. But he has a lot of influential friends. While I am his lieutenant I can at least make sure that some justice is done in the guardhouse. But if I cross him he will see me thrown out and my name blackened forever.’

‘What about the people who paid the bribe?’ said Cullen, steering the conversation away from Blois. ‘What do you know about them?’

Florant shrugged. ‘Not a lot. They were a strange group. Two of them came by the guardhouse to see Blois and give him his damnable money. I think they were Marchers. They wanted Blois to overlook any goings on at the mage house. They also wanted to be allowed to roam the streets unimpeded.’  

‘Anything else?’ Cullen pressed.

‘Only what Blois told me after he was too deep in a bottle of rum to know what he was saying,’ Florant said. ‘He laughed about them. Said they were mad. They’d given themselves a name – The Maker’s True Children. Blois thought that very amusing.’

‘The Maker’s True Children?’ said Dorian. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’ But that wasn’t so remarkable - since the fall of the Circles and the collapse of the Templar Order, there were a lot of splinter groups around these days. And people did so love a good, absurdly melodramatic name.

Cullen shook his head. ‘Nor I. Zevran?’

The elf shrugged lazily. ‘I fear not.’

‘You must know more,’ Cullen demanded of Florant. ‘This is important, lieutenant. I don’t care how many influential friends Guard Captain Blois thinks he has. We have the support of Divine Victoria herself. I assure you, once all of this blighted mess is over I will personally see it that Captain Blois cannot get a job shovelling horse dung in this city.’

Florant’s eyes had gone wide at the mention of Divine Victoria. He glanced nervously between them, and Dorian could see him putting the pieces together in his head. The sudden intense interest of the Inquisition, the mention of the Divine’s involvement – only a fool would not connect it all to the attempted assassination of Trevelyan.  

‘There is one more thing,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I know where you might find one of them.’

‘ _One_ of them?’

‘Two nights ago there was a tavern brawl at a drinking hole on the western edge of the docks – Le Gambrinus it is called. Two guards were passing. They recognised some of the fighters, had seen them wandering the streets about their dark business.’

‘These Maker’s Children people,’ Dorian said.

Florant nodded. ‘They were brawling amongst themselves. The guards believed there had been some kind of argument between them.’

‘How exactly does this help us?’ Cullen said impatiently.

‘Because one of them is still there,’ said Florant. ‘The owner of the tavern has made a complaint to the guard, but Blois has ordered it overlooked.’

 _That_ caught Dorians’ interest. Cullen’s too, judging by the way he uncrossed his arms and took a purposeful step forward.

‘Le Gambrinus you said?’ Cullen said.

‘I know it,’ Zevran piped up. ‘I have visited on occasion. Rather a seedy place to be truthful.’

‘No wonder you’ve been there then,’ Cullen muttered under his breath.

‘Well then,’ Dorian said firmly. ‘Why are we still here?’

…

 

‘Seedy’ certainly did describe the La Gambrinus tavern very well. A faded sign depicting a bunch of grapes and a casket of wine swung lazily in the midday breeze. A woman was lying unconscious outside, slumped up against the tavern wall, an empty flagon still clutched in her hand. She snored loudly as they passed.

The tavern was reasonably busy. The smell of the sea hung heavily in the air. Sailors sat at the narrow tables, eating bowls of hearty stew and putting away copious amounts of ale. There was a woman behind the bar, filling the flagons and taking the coin. She had a patch over her left eye, and a missing finger on her right hand that told of a previous, more exciting career.

‘What can I get you gents?’ she said. Her accent was a thick Ferelden drawl, a sharp contrast to the light Orlesian cadence around them.

‘You made a complaint to the guard,’ said Cullen. ‘About one of your patrons.’

The woman eyed them up and down suspiciously. ‘You don’t look much like the guard to _me_ ,’ she said.

Zevran stepped forward, leaning on the bar and flashing a smile at her. At the same time one hand dipped briefly into his pocket and produced a shining gold sovereign, which he pushed across the bar top.

The woman didn’t hesitate. She took the sovereign and nodded to a small table tucked away in a shadowy corner. ‘That’s him over there. Don’t make a mess.’

There was a man sitting at the table. He had light leather armour on, and a thick growth of stubble on his face. He stank of stale beer and sweat. Dorian could see why the owner of Le Gambrinus wanted him gone – the man appeared almost catatonically drunk. He was slumped over the table like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor. As they approached he picked his head up off the table and peered blearily at them out of bloodshot eyes.

Cullen stopped short, staring down at the man in horrified recognition. ‘ _Finnick_?’ he said sharply.

‘You _know_ him?’ Dorian demanded.

‘He was part of the Templar garrison in Kirkwall,’ said Cullen. ‘Bran Finnick. What in Andraste’s name is he doing here?’

Finnick’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his name, his gaze focusing in on Cullen. He lips curled back from his teeth in a contemptuous snarl.

‘Knight Captain,’ he slurred, rising unsteadily to his feet. He lurched forward, swinging a wild punch at Cullen. He missed by a mile, and nearly staggered to the floor. But somehow he managed to stay upright, and turned to throw another erratic punch at Cullen’s head.

Cullen caught his fist with ease, throwing Finnick backwards. Still Finnick lunged forward again, trying for another blow. This time Cullen didn’t let him off so lightly. He dodged the punch, and delivered one of his own, a neat strike to the side of Finnick’s head. The drunk man went down like a sack of potatoes.

‘Wonderful,’ said Zevran. ‘Now we are going to have to carry him.’

…

In the end, Zevran didn’t carry anyone. Cullen and Dorian, being more or less of a height with one another, wound up shouldering the stinking burden of Bran Finnick between them. They dragged him out of the docks until they encountered some of the city guard who were not under the command of Captain Blois. Word was sent to the Grand Cathedral, and Finnick was taken away to be imprisoned until he regained consciousness.

Upon their return to the Maison Vaille they found Cassandra, demanding to be filled in on the situation. At her insistence Cullen elaborated a little more on the subject of Finnick’s time in Kirkwall.

‘I didn’t know him well,’ he admitted. ‘He was just a recruit. By the time he arrived at the garrison I had bigger problems. Things were going to hell. I think Meredith was already half mad.’

‘Did this Finnick show any signs of radical sympathies?’ Cassandra asked.

Cullen shrugged wearily. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘He did fall in with another Templar, a man by the name of Simeon Worsley. Used to follow him round like a lost puppy. Where Finnick’s sympathies lay I have no idea, but Simeon was Meredith’s man through and through. He used to delight in tormenting the mages.’

Dorian had heard stories about what had happened at the Kirkwall Circle. The incident was infamous, even in Tevinter.

‘You did nothing to stop him?’ he asked Cullen, surprised.

Cullen looked over at him, face pinched. ‘What do you want me to say?’ he said. ‘Meredith had me convinced half the damn Circle were maleficars. Should I have done better? Yes. But I can’t change the past now.’

‘It is irrelevant,’ Cassandra insisted. ‘What matters now is discovering what became of Finnick _after_ the collapse of the Circle. Where did he go? Who did he meet?’

‘Only he can tell us that,’ Cullen said.

It was a few hours before word arrived that Simeon had regained consciousness and sobered up enough to be interrogated. The location of his prison came as a surprise to Dorian – he was being held in the dungeons of the White Spire.

‘The Pit they call it,’ said Cullen as they departed. ‘There are hundreds of cells. Forgotten rooms, torture chambers from the days of Kordillus Drakon, ancient hidden passageways…’

‘Sounds charming,’ said Dorian sarcastically. ‘Is there a brochure?’

The Pit was vast. Dorian hadn’t realised that the White Spire descended so far underground. It was also very dank. He’d expected it to be as empty as the rest of the Spire, but it became quickly clear that The Pit was very much still in use. The glow of faint candlelight spilled out from under some of the cell doors, and a substantial guard kept watch over the dark, grim domain.

Dorian looked around the place with a shudder. This place had seen the misery of thousands of mages across the breadth of a thousand years. Cole had _died_ here – or at least the boy who’d once been called Cole had died here. Alone, starved, in the dark… A monstrous thing. One of an untold number of monstrous things that had no doubt taken place in this cesspit of mortal misery.

A sombre, sullen guard led them to the cell where Finnick was held. He unlocked the door and stood aside to let the Inquisition in.

Finnick was sitting on a low, stark wooden bench. His long, greasy hair hung in his face. He glared up at them as they entered, the guard closing the cell door behind them.

‘Is this supposed to be irony?’ he said in a low, gravelly voice. ‘A Templar imprisoned in the White Spire?’

‘You’re not a Templar,’ said Cullen coldly.

Finnick peered up contemptuously at him. ‘And nor are you, _Knight-Captain_ ,’ he sneered.

‘I don’t claim to be,’ said Cullen. He stepped forward, staring down stony faced at the man before him. Finnick certainly was in a state. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, and Dorian noticed that his hands were trembling. He was clearly afflicted by something worse than a bad hangover.

‘Lyrium withdrawal,’ said Cullen quietly. ‘Is that why you were drinking? To ease the craving?’

‘To hell with you,’ snapped Finnick defiantly.

‘You know why we’ve brought you here,’ Cassandra said. ‘We wish to know about the Maker’s True Children.’

Finnick dropped his head, staring down at his feet. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Nothing to say?’ Cullen exploded. ‘The blood of the Herald of Andraste is on the hands of whoever is behind all this, and _you_ claim you have nothing to say?’

Finnick’s head shot up. ‘The Herald is dead?’ he said, voice broken.

‘Not yet,’ said Dorian softly. ‘Not yet.’

Finnick let out an audible sigh of relief. ‘Thank the Maker,’ he muttered.

‘You say that, but you will tell us nothing!’ Cullen snapped, punching the fist of one hand into the open palm of the other.

‘If he lives, won’t they try again anyway?’ said Dorian quietly. Finnick tore his gaze away from Cullen to look at him. ‘This wasn’t the first time was it? They sent the assassins.’

A clear ripple of emotion crossed Finnick’s face. Dorian had only been fishing, wasn’t even completely certain that Finnick was involved in the attack on Trevelyan, but the man’s thoughts were written plain across his face. He would play a truly terrible hand of Wicked Grace.

‘I didn’t want this,’ Finnick said at last. ‘This wasn’t what I signed on for. I told him – if they catch us, they’ll _hang_ us. He just laughed.’

‘Who?’ Dorian demanded.

Finnick shook his head and looked back at Cullen. ‘Simeon,’ he said plainly.

Cullen scowled. ‘Of course.’

‘I didn’t know this was what they were planning!’ Finnick protested. ‘He said we’d just be putting the mages back in their place! They’re everywhere now, like rats. Look here!’ He gestured angrily at Dorian. ‘A Vint walks freely into the White Spire without a care! It’s madness. And your damned Inquisition has only made it worse. You should have collared them when you had the chance, instead you turned them loose like wild dogs.’

Dorian looked down on Finnick with revulsion. He was practically frothing at the mouth he was so full of hate.

‘Where is Simeon now?’ Cullen asked, looming over Finnick threateningly.  

Finnick pursed his mouth tightly.

‘If you want to save your neck from the noose, you’ll tell us,’ Cullen warned.

‘You’ll hang me anyway,’ Finnick said sullenly. ‘I’m no fool Cullen.’

‘It isn’t up to me,’ Cullen replied. ‘You’re not a prisoner of the Inquisition. You’re a prisoner of the Chantry – the Chantry you swore an oath to when you joined the Order. If there’s any shred of honour left in you Bran, you’ll tell us what we want to know.’

‘Divine Victoria is merciful,’ Cassandra added. ‘Help us and she may well spare you the gallows.’

There was a long pause. For a moment Dorian thought Finnick would cling to his defiance, but then his shoulders slumped in defeat.

‘They’re in an old Chantry,’ Finnick said at last, voice weary. ‘Near the elven alienage.’

Cullen turned to Dorian, and they shared a brief look of triumph.

…

It began to rain as they marched through the streets toward the alienage. The grey skies had been threatening it all day. A distant roll of thunder caught Dorian’s ear.

They’d picked up Zevran and Sera on their way, to help even out the numbers. Cullen had argued that they ought to take a complement of soldiers, but Cassandra had argued that the element of surprise was more important. The five of them might be able to enter undetected – a squadron of guards would surely not.

Dorian had never been an elven Alienage before, although he’d heard tales about them from former inhabitants of such places back in Skyhold. He knew the Alienage of Val Royeaux was almost legendarily squalid. When they came close to it, he realised that the reality certainly lived up to its appalling reputation.

They skirted around the edges, receiving suspicious looks from the elves who passed them in the street. The chantry they were looking for was outside of the Alienage itself, but still close enough to have been swallowed up by the aura of poverty that the place projected. Someone had thrown rocks through the windows, and a large collection of detritus and filth had collected around the walls. In the distance, a rumble of ominous thunder briefly caught Dorian’s ear.

The heavy oak doors were firmly barred, but Finnick had told them of a second, secret entrance that the so-called Children of the Maker were using to getting in and out. They discovered it exactly where he said it would be, round the back of the chantry, half-concealed beneath a state of a repentant Maferath. The trapdoor was beginning to show signs of rotting, but there was plenty of evidence to show it had been used recently – and often.

Zevran went down first, dropping into the darkness on silent feet. A moment later there were two short, sharp thumps in quick succession, followed by a gurgling noise.

The rest of them followed down. The bodies of a man and a woman lay dead on the floor, and Zevran stood over them wiping the blood off his daggers.

‘Look outs,’ he said simply, as the other four climbed down into the tunnel.

The passageway was rough and damp, lit by one burning torch. It was very narrow, but fortunately the floor beneath their feet was rough dirt instead of bare stone. It muffled their footsteps perfectly.

‘How did they discover a secret way in?’ Cassandra hissed. ‘Somebody must have told them what to look for.’

‘You suspect they had help?’ Cullen said in a quiet voice. ‘From someone inside the Chantry?’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ Cassandra admitted.

‘Why would a chantry even have a secret entrance?’ Dorian wondered aloud.

‘It’s near the alienage,’ Cassandra said. ‘This chantry may have been used in the past to hide fugitives.’

‘Hush!’ said Zevran sharply. ‘Truly, have you people never sneaked into places you were not supposed to be before? The first rule is to stay _silent_.’ He glanced briefly at Cassandra and Cullen in their cumbersome, heavy armour. ‘Or at least as silent as you can manage,’ he added ruefully.

The five of them crept along the cramped passageway as it led away underneath the chantry. It opened out into the chantry’s cellars. They were in atrocious condition, half flooded. Ruined books and torn pages floated pathetically in the water. No wonder the place had been abandoned.

‘This way,’ Zevran whispered.

As they approached the stone stairway, the sound of voices became audible. One voice in particular rose above the others, clear and powerful. It was a woman’s voice, and the words she was reciting were instantly familiar.

‘Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just…’

It was a sermon. They crept up the stairs, everyone’s hand laid ready on their weapon of choice. Fortunately for them, the stairs rose in a dark, secluded corner of the chantry’s interior, shielded by a pillar and fallen timbers from the roof.

The forward of the chantry was brightly lit. Someone had relit the holy flame in its great brass brazier. The reflections of the flames flickered on the wall. Looming over it all, her hands outstretched benevolently, stood an enormous gilt statue of Andraste.

Stood over the brazier was a woman wearing the robes of a Revered Mother. She was the one conducting the sermon, and clustered before her, all on bended knee, was her flock. Roughly ten or so men and women. The light of the holy flame glinted off armour and swords.

‘Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow,’ said the woman, raising her voice further still. Her words rang with the kind of iron clad conviction only possessed by the rabidly zealous. This, Dorian realized, must be Corinna Eadwin.

Finnick had hung his head in shame as he’d described to them the nature of Maker’s True Children. They were led by a certain Mother Corinna, formerly of Ostwick. She’d been a Revered Mother there, serving under the city’s Grand Cleric. But when the Circles had begun to fall, Corinna had grown disillusioned. She had believed that all the remaining Circles should be annulled, before their mages had a chance to join the rebellion. Such views had been too bloodthirsty for even the more conservative elements of the Chantry, and Corinna had left Ostwick under a cloud.

When she’d met Simeon Worsley, they both quickly realized that they shared a common cause. To bring the mages back to heel, to lock them back up for good or kill them all trying. Worsely knew of other Templars, Finnick included, that shared their beliefs. They all banded together, giving themselves the rather self-important and dramatic name ‘The Maker’s True Children’.

If they’d had a plan, it had been a vague one. To kill as many mages as possible seemed to be the long and the short of it. According to Finnick, Mother Corinna had been in a righteous fury about the way the nations of Thedas had permitted the mages to remain free. She seemed to believe that they should all muster their armies together and return the mages to the Circles at swordpoint.

Then the Inquisition had taken the mages in, and her fury had only grown more potent. The Herald of Andraste was a heretic, a blasphemer, a stain upon the world. It was their holy duty to see him cast down. The mark upon his hand was an obscenity, incontrovertible proof of his wickedness. The living should not possess the power to cross the Veil.

The way Finnick told it, she’d become almost obsessed with Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan. And so an insidious plot had begun to form.

Obviously the woman was mad. But, watching her give her sermon to her enraptured congregation, Dorian could see how she’d managed to accumulate such a devoted following. She practically glowed with righteousness. Every word out of her mouth was said with such conviction, such passionate belief. If she’d been less completely off her rocker she would have made an excellent missionary.

As they watched, the former Templars went up one by one to be blessed by Mother Corinna. As she blessed each, she handed them a small wooden box. It was only when the first opened it and removed a vial full of a familiar soft blue glow that Dorian understood what was going on. They were taking lyrium.

Next to him Cullen tensed. Dorian lay a careful, steadying hand on his friend’s arm.  

‘That’s Simeon Worsley,’ Cullen muttered, staring at the Templar who’d taken his blessing first, and who was now in the process of ingesting the prepared lyrium. ‘We have to act now. The lyrium makes them stronger. The more of them take it, the more of a disadvantage we’re at.’

Cassandra nodded. She drew her sword. It made a steely hiss as it left the scabbard.

‘Cease this!’ she bellowed, as she and the rest of them stepped forward into the light cast out by the great brazier. Overhead a roll of thunder echoed loudly across Val Royeaux. Mother Corinna stopped mid-sentence, hand still raised in the act of bestowing a blessing. The Templars too froze in place, each turning their head sharply to stare at Cassandra as she advanced upon them.

Simeon drew his blade first, face fixed in an angry snarl. The other Templars did the same. Dorian couldn’t help but notice that Simeon was by far the oldest of the group. The others couldn’t have been much more than raw recruits when the Circles fell. Impressionable and easily manipulated – but inexperienced in combat.

‘Knight-Captain Cullen,’ said Simeon unpleasantly. He was a tall man, scarred across his left cheek, and with dark hair greying at the temples. ‘What a long time it’s been.’

‘Simeon,’ Cullen said tersely. ‘I always took you for a fool, but this is madness.’

‘Surrender,’ Cassandra demanded of them all. ‘Give up your arms and Divine Victoria may show you mercy.’

‘You would arrest us?’ Mother Corinna called out defiantly, voice ringing round the chantry. ‘On what charge?’

‘The attempted assassination of the Herald of Andraste,’ Cassandra said coldly.

‘Attempted?’ said Simeon. ‘So the Inquisitor still lives does he?’

Behind him Mother Corinna’s face twisted furiously. ‘The Maker will cast the heretic down yet!’ she snapped. ‘Just as he will give us the strength to see these treacherous dogs put to their deaths.’

‘What fine company you keep these days Cullen,’ sneered Simeon. ‘Knife-ears? And a Vint?’ He turned his cold gaze onto Dorian. ‘I shall enjoy gutting him personally.’

‘Well, you’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?’ Dorian said. ‘Although I must say, those are rather big words for a man who sends others to do his dirty business while he cowers away in secret.’

Simeon’s eyes blazed angrily. He stepped forward, sword held ready for the attack. The other former Templars didn’t hesitate to follow his lead.

As the fight erupted, Dorian swiftly found himself face to face with Simeon Worsley. The man looked to be nearing fifty, but it was clear that the strength and stamina of his youth had not yet deserted him. He wielded his heavy great-sword with practised ease and dexterity.  His eyes, wild and bloodthirsty, remained fixed on Dorian’s face – Cullen had said the man hated mages, but it was quite something to have all that loathing turned on you.   

The others might have been young and inexperienced, but it became quickly apparent that Simeon was no green recruit. He knew how to fight. He swung his sword twice at Dorian – one an arching blow from above, deflected by a hasty spirit shield. The other a vicious forward thrust, caught on the hard silverite body of Dorian’s staff. The sheer force behind it nearly brought him down to his knees.

Dorian tried to go on the offensive, but he found himself struggling to summon up the power. He felt strange, a little detached from the world. Spells that normally came as easily as breathing were suddenly as difficult as they had been when he’d been a child, learning at his father’s knee.

It was Simeon, he realized belatedly. The man was a Templar, running fresh off a draught of lyrium. He was smothering Dorian’s connection to the Fade, making it harder for him to do magic. Making it harder for him to fight back. The feeling was disturbing and unfamiliar.

Dorian had fought against the Red Templars, but this was different. They had been barely human anymore, twisted and driven mad by the poison in their veins. Simeon, by contrast, was very much still in control of his faculties. And his abilities.

Dorian hastily blocked another great swing of Simeon’s great-sword. A lesser metal might have buckled under the force of the blow, but the silverite held. It sent Dorian staggering backward however, feet slipping on the smooth flagstones of the chantry floor. He stumbled and nearly fell, leaving himself wide open to Simeon’s next attack.

Realising he was doomed if he didn’t act at once, Dorian rallied his strength. He fought against the tide of sluggish lethargy where usually he found a wellspring of magical energy. He grasped hold of the power, forcing it to flow through him by sheer bloody-minded strength of will.

The lightning struck Simeon sharply, staggering him backwards. It didn’t have the power that Dorian wanted, but it was enough to disrupt Simeon’s denial of his magic. The next bolt packed much more of a punch, sending the Templar sprawling onto his back.

In a flash Simeon was back on his feet, teeth bared viciously as he lunged forward. Dorian tried to cast a spell, but again the magic just wouldn’t come. He just barely flung a weak spirit shield up in enough time to catch the blow, but this time the sheer brutal power of it did send him crashing down painfully to his knees.

Simeon loomed over him, grinning horribly. He hefted the sword over his head, bringing it down in a sweeping arc intended to cleave right into Dorian.

Heart hammering wildly in his chest, blood pounding in his ears, Dorian just managed to fling himself sideways in enough time to dodge the blow. He heard the thump as the blade hit the flagstones where he’d been kneeling just moments before.

Simeon laughed, an unpleasant, rasping noise. With no pause to collect himself he heaved the sword around again, preparing for another savage strike.

Dorian managed a feeble burst of flame which burnt briefly on the breastplate of Simeon’s armour. He sneered contemptuously, brushing the fire out with one sweep of his leather glove. He swung his great-sword around, ready to deliver the killing blow.

He made a low, keening noise as the sword clattered from his hand. Blood welled up in his mouth, and he slumped heavily to the floor. Behind him stood Cullen, sword red with Simeon’s blood.

‘Are you alright?’ he demanded of Dorian.

No Dorian was not alright; he’d very nearly found himself skewered like a stuck pig. That was the second time this week he’d come within a hair’s breadth of dying horribly – third time, if you counted being drugged by Sapper. He’d bloody well had just about enough of it.

‘I’m fine,’ was what he actually said, clambering swiftly to his feet. With the smothering presence of Simeon removed he felt his connection to the Fade steady, felt the magic at his fingertips again. The other Templars didn’t have anything like the suppressive skill their psychotic leader had possessed.

When they saw Simeon go down, the fight drained out of most of them. Three were already lying dead on the floor – two cut down by blades, the third with an arrow in his eye. As Dorian watched Cassandra caught one man with a sharp blow to the side of the head using her shield. He crumpled to the floor, at best concussed. A woman to Dorian’s left howled as she raised her sword to strike at Cullen, only to have an arrow lance through her palm.

Dorian could see the defeat on their faces – they were outclassed, and they knew it. Still, they seemed to be determined to fight to the death, like good little fanatics. They went down dead in painfully short succession, one frozen instantly by a blast of magic from Dorian’s staff.

Above it all, standing over the great brazier, Mother Corinna watched. As the last of the Templars fell she let out a furious howl, and pulled a dagger from her belt. For one mad moment Dorian thought that maybe she was going to attack them all on her own. Then he realised the truth - she intended to kill _herself_ with it.

‘I go to the Maker’s side,’ she cried out, drawing the knife back, the blade angled towards her stomach. She was too far away for any of them to stop her. Below her the flame burnt in the brazier – she’d most likely fall forward, into the fire.

Instead she toppled sideways, eyes rolling back in her head – but she hadn’t had time to shank the dagger into her own belly. Standing behind her, a hefty brass candlestick in his hand, was Zevran. He’d hit her round the head with it.

‘And once again the handsome elf saves the day,’ he said. ‘No, no, don’t all rush to thank me at once. Flattery does embarrass me so.’

Dorian looked around at the carnage. Only two of the former Templars remained alive, both badly injured. The body of Simeon Worsley lay in a large pool of his own blood. Even in death the man had an unpleasant, sour grimace on his face. Dorian resisted the inelegant urge to give the corpse a good kicking.

In other circumstances, he might have felt a little sorry for the others. They were young and stupid, led astray by poisonous words and toxic beliefs. But that didn’t excuse all the misery they’d created, all the pain and suffering they’d willingly caused. Their ignorant malice had nearly cost Dorian more dearly than he could bear to think about.  

No, he wasn’t sorry the miserable bastards were dead at all.

On the other hand, he found himself strangely glad that Mother Corinna had survived. A knife to the stomach and a fall into the fire was too good for her. He wanted her to rot for a long time in some dank little cell somewhere. To have time to think on her failure. To really _suffer_.  

Cullen was looking pale, head hung low as he surveyed the bodies on the floor. Blood dripped from the edge of his sword. Cassandra laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

‘It had to be done,’ she said gravely.

‘They deserved it,’ Dorian added bitterly.

Cullen nodded slowly, taking in a deep, fortifying breath. ‘They did,’ he said at last. He shook his head angrily. ‘Simeon should never have been allowed to become a Templar. He was always too bloodthirsty.’

The metallic tang of blood mixed unpleasantly with the smoke from the brazier fire. Outside the heavens had well and truly opened. The rain drummed loudly on the chantry roof, and a flash of lightning briefly illuminated everything. Thunder rolled above them.

Normally Dorian would have wanted to avoid the rain. It did such awful things to his hair. But now he found that he quite liked the idea of letting it wash over him. Maybe it might wash away some of the grime, filth, and malevolence that lingered so heavily in the air.


	11. Chapter 11

The blissfully intense heat of the bathwater seeped into Dorian’s aching muscles and joints. He groaned in relief, sinking further still into the water. It had only been lukewarm by the time the maid had finished filling the luxurious brass tub, but a simple spell had heated the water until it steamed.

He nearly fell asleep, the water staying magically warm as the time dragged past. He woke up enough to wash his hair and examine the collection of bruises that were blooming plentifully over his skin. A decent elfroot poultice would help there, but Dorian couldn’t muster the energy to find some.

He was reluctant to leave the bath, but his skin was beginning to wrinkle like a dried out old grape, so he climbed out of the tub and put on the clothes that had been laid out for him.

The thunderstorm had passed, but it had brought in its wake a distinct chilly breeze on the air. Summer was drawing to a close. Dorian wore a cloak as he navigated the streets of Val Royeaux, walking in the direction of the Grand Cathedral.

There was a service underway. Even from outside Dorian could hear the harmonious rise and fall of the singing. It was beautiful. It followed him down the Cathedral’s winding passageways as he headed towards Leliana’s private apartments. A lay sister showed him into the Divine’s inner sanctum, before departing to inform her of Dorian’s arrival.

Dorian went at once to the bedroom. As he entered he found a very different sight to the one he’d been expecting. The bed was empty, the sheets changed and the lavish bedclothes perfectly remade. The heavy drapes had been pulled back to let in the sun. The tools and potions of the healer were gone as well.

Panic, raw and sudden, gripped him.

The only occupant of the room was a lay-brother, just finishing the task of smoothing down the bedsheets and arranging the embroidered bedspread so that it draped just right. He startled sharply at Dorian’s abrupt entrance.

‘Messere!’ the lay brother said indignantly. ‘These are the private quarters of Her Holiness, how dare you…’

‘Where’s Lord Trevelyan?’ Dorian interrupted him. ‘What’s happened?’

The man’s face screwed up in a righteous affront. ‘The condition of the Lord Inquisitor is not for me to divulge to anyone…’

‘Ah, Dorian,’ Josephine’s voice came from over his shoulder. She entered the bedroom and smiled gracefully at the prickly Chantry brother, who made a disdainful face and went back to fussing over the bedclothes.

‘Where is he?’ Dorian repeated himself insistently. They both knew who he meant.

‘Next door,’ said Josephine. The fear melted away from Dorian instantly, vanishing away as suddenly as it had arrived. His shoulders sagged in relief. ‘He is much recovered, although still weak. Go, join him. I will have some tea sent in to you.’

In deference to the chilly morning, someone had lit a fire in the comfortable parlour room. Maxwell was sat in a chair in front of the hearth, a thick woollen blanket laid across his shoulders and trailing down to wrap awkwardly around his legs. He looked exhausted, but his eyes gleamed brightly in the firelight, and there was no trace of feverish sweat about his brow.

Trevelyan looked over as Dorian entered. ‘Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,’ he said, voice hoarse. He smiled tiredly.

Dorian couldn’t but choke up a relieved laugh. He strode across the space between them in three long, swift strides. He put his arms around Trevelyan’s shoulders, trying to get as close as possible while simultaneously not pressing any of his weight down onto the other man. Trevelyan, for his part, put his hands up around Dorian’s back and flattened his palms against his shoulder blades. They pressed uncomfortably against the bruises Dorian had received when Worsley had knocked him to the ground, but he could not have given less of a damn.

‘You look terrible,’ Dorian said flatly when he finally pulled away.

‘I feel terrible,’ Trevelyan said. He slumped back heavily into his chair and stretched out his bare feet towards the fire. When Dorian tried to pull back he reached up and grabbed him by the fabric of his collar. ‘Kiss me,’ he demanded. With some gusto, Dorian did as he was ordered.

By the time the tea arrived a short while later, they were sat side by side. Dorian had pulled a second chair over to stand in front of the hearth. Someone – Josephine, no doubt – had filled Trevelyan in on events since he’d fallen victim to the poisoned knife. But it wasn’t that he wanted to discuss first – no, he wanted to know all about Dorian’s little escapade to Parnasse.

‘Who the hell is Mavius Cataline?’ Trevelyan said, sitting up as straight as he could manage and trying to glower ominously. The whole effect was rather ruined by the impression that, if he stood up too quickly, he might well keel straight over.

‘A dangerous man apparently,’ said Dorian with a shrug. ‘I’ve never actually met him, although he has a reputation as something of an undesirable eccentric – even among his fellow Magisters.’

‘Do you think he’ll try to have you taken again?’

Dorian shook his head and took a sip of his tea, savouring the spice. Predictably, Trevelyan’s cup lay abandoned and unwanted on the tray.

‘I doubt it,’ he said at last. ‘His catspaw is dead, and his own hand has been revealed. I intend to ask my friends in the Imperium to inform the dear Magister that I cannot help him with his experiments – without the Breach, Alexius’s temporal magic goes back to being nothing more than an interesting theory.’

‘You think he’ll believe that?’ Trevelyan asked sceptically.

‘Perhaps not,’ Dorian admitted. ‘But I also intend to write to my father. I can’t imagine he’ll take kindly to a fellow Magister trying to abduct his only child. Things might not be good between us, but there’s still appearances to keep up after all.’

Trevelyan nodded. ‘I’m sorry about Erimond by the way,’ he said, resting his hand lightly over Dorian’s forearm. ‘I know you believed she could help with the reform efforts in Tevinter.’

‘She might yet,’ Dorian said thoughtfully. ‘My charming kidnapper did say that the real Juliana Erimond had been intended to pledge her support to the Inquisition. Before she was… waylaid. If her unpleasant ordeal hasn’t changed her mind then perhaps…’

‘Perhaps?’ Trevelyan prodded him, squeezing Dorian’s arm.

‘Perhaps a visit to Tevinter might be in order,’ Dorian finished, finally giving voice to the idea that had been brewing in the back of his mind for a long time. ‘I could visit Erimond on her estates… and I fear I’ve neglected my friends in Minrathous. And, of course, my parents would be so very _delighted_ to see me…’

Trevelyan stared at him for a long moment, the hand laid over Dorian’s arm suddenly growing tense. He looked away, turning his gaze onto the crackling fire. His jaw worked tightly as he spoke. ‘Will you leave soon?’ he asked quietly, withdrawing his hand altogether.

‘What?’ Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dorian exclaimed, catching Trevelyan’s retreating hand in his own and pulling it back. ‘I don’t mean right this second you fool. In the spring perhaps.’

Indeed, the very idea of being separated so soon after Maxwell had nearly died was unbearable. Unconsciously, Dorian tightened his grip, clinging on tightly to the man’s hand. No, he would go back to Skyhold for the winter, along with the rest of the Inquisition. Tevinter could wait for now.

Trevelyan leaned back into his chair and sighed loudly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, eyes drifting slowly shut. ‘I know I’ve been unconscious for two days, but I feel like I haven’t slept in a month. It’s making me a bit…’

‘Melodramatic?’ Dorian suggested wryly.

Trevelyan cracked one eye open to peer sardonically at Dorian. ‘If you say so.’ He opened both eyes lazily, and smiled – looking at Dorian with such naked warmth and affection that something twisted almost to the point of pain in Dorian’s chest. Before he knew it, his mouth had started speaking without pausing to consult him.

‘I love you,’ he blurted out, instantly cursing himself for it. He’d been planning on something much, much better than this. Maybe after a fine dinner, or a night of the best, most lavish entertainment Val Royeaux had to offer. Or after Trevelyan was fully recovered, back at Skyhold, when they could get properly reacquainted with their own bed one more. On that damn freezing – if rather majestic – balcony. That would have been almost perfect.

Dorian knew he had a flair for the dramatic. It was one of his best qualities. He’d fully intended his grand declaration of love to be as dashing and alluring as possible. Really, that was no less than the both of them deserved. And yet here he was, having just thrown the words out there into the world with no style or finesse at all.

He didn’t know what kind of a reaction he’d been hoping for. Shock maybe. Pleasant surprise at the very least. Hopefully delight, happiness, contentment. Either way, definitely an ardent outpouring of emotion.

Instead Trevelyan’s eyes drifted shut sleepily, lulled by the soporific warmth of the fire. ‘I know you do,’ he murmured softly, giving Dorian’s hand a light, affectionate squeeze.

…

 

Mother Corinna was being held in The Pit. Trevelyan had insisted on coming along to interrogate her, despite the fact that he was clearly much too ill. Dorian had persuaded, insisted, and finally yelled – but had failed to talk him out of it.

The dungeon was every bit as dank and awful as Dorian remembered. Corinna was on her knees in her cell, hands clasped piously in her lap. She was praying. As the door opened and the three of them – Dorian, Trevelyan and Cassandra – entered, she looked up. Her eyes were wide and her face schooled into a perfect expression of innocent piety.

Then her eyes landed on Trevelyan, and something unpleasant flashed briefly behind her eyes. She quickly got control of herself though, staring up at them serenely.

‘Seeker,’ she said, addressing Cassandra almost deferentially. ‘My lords.’

‘Mother Corinna,’ said Cassandra, voice stern. ‘You are charged with the attempted murder of the Herald of Andraste.’

Corinna smiled placidly. Her entire demeanour had changed completely from her frothing rage at the chantry. Now she was calm, collected, completely in control of herself. It was disconcerting and unnatural.

‘I know no Herald of Andraste,’ she said. ‘The very title is a blasphemy.’

Cassandra’s mouth twisted in irritation. ‘The Inquisitor then,’ she said sharply.

Corinna remained on her knees. She clasped her hands tighter together, and resumed her prayers.

‘You have nothing to say for yourself?’ Cassandra demanded.

‘What am I supposed to have done?’ Mother Corinna asked. ‘I am a holy woman – I have done nothing but what my Maker hath commanded.’

‘You hired assassins,’ said Cassandra. ‘You had a mage murdered, and dressed one of your acolytes in his clothes before sending him to murder the Herald. You bribed a captain of the city guard. You have left a trail of pain and suffering from here to the Free Marches.’

Mother Corinna continued to smile patiently through all of this, as though the words simply washed over her. ‘I knew your parents,’ she said, addressing Trevelyan directly. ‘Back in Ostwick. Your family came to the chantry every week. I must have seen you there, when you were a child, sitting with your brothers and sisters. Bann Trevelyan was a pious man as I recall. He cannot imagine the depths of his shame at having such a heretic for a son.’

Dorian’s hand itched with the urge to slap the terrible smile from the woman’s face. If the calculated cruelty of her words had struck home, then Trevelyan didn’t show it. He kept his face impassive.

‘And so is the Golden City blackened, with each step you take in my Hall, marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting…’ Corinna said, quoting the Canticle of Threnondies. ‘No mortal may enter the Fade. It is an affront to the Maker – you know this Seeker. _He_ is an affront to the Maker. That thing on his hand is a blasphemy.’

‘And murder is not an affront in the Maker’s eyes?’ Dorian said. ‘He’s on board with that is he?’

Corinna turned her gaze onto Dorian, looking him up and down with undisguised contempt. ‘I will not be lectured on morality by a Magister,’ she said coldly. ‘Your people gave the world the Blight! You burnt Holy Andraste! And you would tell _me_ what is right and what is wrong?’

‘I am _not_ a Magister,’ Dorian said. ‘Why is it you people find that fact so hard to grasp? Are all southerners stupid, or is it just the ones I meet?’ He loomed over Mother Corinna, sneering down at her with a look of haughty disdain that he’d learnt from his father – the one designed to utterly infuriate whoever it was turned on.

‘You know what I think?’ Dorian said. ‘This isn’t about the Maker, or Andraste, or any of your devout _horseshit_ …’ He locked eyes with her, pouring every ounce of superior arrogance he could muster into his gaze. He was a Pavus, it came naturally.

‘This is about _you_ ,’ he said. ‘The world has left you behind, you and the people who think like you. The Circles have fallen, the Templars are disbanded, and you have no power over us anymore. I know a bully when I see one, _Mother_ Corinna. Did it feel good? Making people afraid again? Pouring your poison into willing ears?’

On the floor, on her knees, Corinna couldn’t quite maintain her composure in the face of Dorian’s barrage of bitter truths. The look she shot him was venomous. ‘I speak only the word of the Maker,’ she said.

‘You speak a load of vicious drivel,’ said Dorian. ‘Why is it I wonder, if the Maker is on your side, that it’s _you_ sitting here in this miserable hole? Why is it your bunch of idiotic lackeys lying dead? Why did you fail no less than three bloody times to kill the Herald? Maybe it’s time to wake up and smell the communion incense you mad old...’

‘That’s enough,’ said Trevelyan quietly. He’d remained completely silent up to this point, hanging back behind Dorian and Cassandra. But now he stepped forward. Even in the dankness of The Pit, the wan pallor of his skin was visible, as was the heavy, tired way he held himself. A smirk of satisfaction flickered briefly across Corinna’s face. Dorian’s hand itched with the urge to slap it off.

Trevelyan fixed Corinna with a long, cool stare. He opened his mouth, and for a moment Dorian thought he was going to say something. But then he simply shook his head and looked away.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I’m tired.’

The dismissal seemed to enrage Corinna more than any direct insult could have. She scrambled up off her knees as they left, the heavy cell door slammed in her face by the guard.

‘Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven!’ she cried out after them, quoting the Chant again. ‘Field and forest shall burn, the seas shall rise and devour them, the wind shall tear their nations from the face of the earth!’

‘We should still interrogate her…’ Cassandra protested.

‘There’s no point,’ Trevelyan said. ‘Listen to her. She’ll tell us nothing. Leave her to rot.’ 

…

 

The day the Inquisition readied itself to leave Val Royeaux was bright with only a faint breeze to stir the air. The Maison Vaille was full of activity. The possessions of the Inquisition were packed away, ready for the long journey back to the Frostbacks. The rest of the house was carefully encased in dust sheets.

Dorian was in a good mood as he lingered around the courtyard, watching the preparations. Not that long ago the idea that he would be _pleased_ to leave behind a cultural beacon like Val Royeaux – especially in exchange for a freezing castle in the arse end of nowhere – would have been ridiculous. And yet here he was, actually _looking forward_ to tramping back to the mountains.

Clearly at some point he’d gone mad. Perhaps it was the moment he’d joined the Inquisition. Or when he’d realised that he actually thought of the motley crew of degenerates, ruffians and schemers as his _friends_. And that they thought the same of him in turn.

Although, if he was being perfectly honest with himself, it was probably when he’d first kissed Maxwell in the library. Most of his more ridiculous decisions seemed to have started happening directly after that.

‘Ah, I love hard work,’ a voice drawled lazily behind him. ‘I could watch it all day.’

Dorian glanced over at Zevran as the elf sauntered up to stand beside him. He had a heavy hooded cloak on, and a leather knapsack thrown over one shoulder. He looked like any other traveller on the road, but Dorian didn’t doubt for one moment that underneath the nondescript grey woollen cloak he was armed to the teeth.

‘And where will you be heading?’ Dorian asked curiously.

Zevran shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Perhaps I will go to Antiva. These chilly southern winters do not agree with me.’

Dorian pulled his own coat more tightly around himself. ‘A sentiment I wholeheartedly agree with,’ he muttered. Winter at Skyhold would undoubtedly be atrocious beyond all imagining. Dorian intended to spend as much of it in bed as he possibly could. With company, naturally.

‘My sources tell me that the Crows will no longer be troubling the Inquisitor,’ Zevran said. ‘The tragic deaths of their assassins, and the mysterious burning down of their bureau in Val Royeaux seems to have unsettled them rather.’

Dorian’s mouth twitched in amusement. ‘How fortunate,’ he said drily.

Bryn, the young elven slave who’d saved Dorian’s life, bustled past them with his arms full of luggage. The Inquisition had tried to reward him with enough money for the boy to start a new life wherever he chose, but instead he’d pled for a job. After a lifetime of serving, he simply knew nothing else. He’d gotten both the job _and_ the money, which he’d stared at with a kind of dazed amazement that had made Dorian feel very uncomfortable.

There were plenty of things he wanted to change about Tevinter. To his shame, the slavery had once been quite near the bottom of the pile.

‘Well, I must be off,’ said Zevran, readjusting the strap of his bag. ‘It has all been a most interesting experience. Do give my regards to the Inquisitor, and of course the charming Lady Montiliyet.’

He held his hand out for Dorian to shake. Dorian eyed it suspiciously – shaking hands was such a _Ferelden_ thing to do. In the Imperium a curt nod of the head was seen as more than sufficient. Still – Zevran _had_ saved him from being shipped off to the tender mercies of a madman.

The elf’s fingers were rough with calluses. Instead of shaking Dorian’s hand he immediately slid his equally roughened palm up his forearm, so that his fingers slipped beneath the cuff of Dorian’s sleeve and gently caressed the soft, vulnerable skin beneath the crook of his elbow.

At the same time Zevran had somehow materialized much, much closer, so that they were stood mere inches apart. He leaned closer still, his eyes flickering down Dorian’s form with open lasciviousness.

‘It was a _pleasure_ to make your acquaintance, Dorian Pavus,’ he said. ‘Please, should our paths cross again, do not hesitate to look me up.’ He did something complicated but undeniably lecherous with his eyebrows. ‘And by all means, do extend the invite to Lord Trevelyan.’

And in the next instant he was gone, swaggering away with his head held high while Dorian’s brain scrambled madly for some kind of withering retort. It came up with absolutely nothing, leaving him with no other option but to stalk back inside and pretend that his face hadn’t grown embarrassingly hot.

…

 

Dorian _loathed_ travelling. For starters it meant he had to get on a horse again. Secondly it was interminably dull. Just miles and miles of road, with the occasional dirty tavern or unbearably provincial village to break up the day.

Cullen and Trevelyan rode at the head of the small retinue of soldiers, chatting animatedly. They actually _enjoyed_ this sort of thing, tramping about the countryside and rising at the crack of dawn every damn day. Dorian preferred to hang around the back of the Inquisition’s little caravan, riding with Josephine, who looked every bit as uncomfortable as Dorian. They passed the time with gossip about their friends, and complaints - good natured on Josephine’s part, less so on Dorian’s – about the journey.

On the fourth day they stopped for the night at some little Orlesian market town on the edge of a small lake.  It was quite picturesque, and Dorian found himself warming to the place even more when he discovered its principal export.

Wine.

The mayor of the town was a charming woman, who also happened to own the largest vineyard in the surrounding countryside, not to mention a reasonably sized chateau. She invited the Inquisition to make camp in her grounds and stable their horses in her yard, and for the senior members of the party to spend the night in her rather comfortable home.

Dorian recognised the gleam of someone standing on the brink of an imminent rise up the social ladder in her eyes. She’d be dining out on having hosted the Herald of Andraste for some time. But it was much nicer than the local tavern, and infinitely better than a tent. They accepted.

In the middle of a hastily prepared dinner a messenger arrived. He had a letter for Trevelyan, closed with the seal of the Divine. Trevelyan excused himself politely and disappeared to read it.

Dorian was so hungry, and the wine so good, that it took him nearly an hour to notice that he’d never come back.

‘Where’s Maxwell?’ he said loudly enough to get the whole table’s attention. It was absurd to feel panicked, he told himself. They were a long way from Val Royeaux now.

But he’d heard that the Crows would follow their victims across the breadth of Thedas if needs be. Perhaps Zevran had been wrong about them abandoning the contract? Or perhaps Corinna had hired somebody else before they’d caught up with her. Dorian had just assumed that the matter was settled

Assumptions were the province of fools and imbeciles.

‘Perhaps he’s retired to bed?’ Josephine ventured, but he could see that the same thought had occurred to her.

‘I’ll go check on him,’ said Dorian, rising swiftly from the table. He took his staff.

Rather anticlimactically, he found Trevelyan safe and sound, sitting at the little writing desk in the bedroom he was due to spend the night in. The letter he’d received earlier was unfolded in front of him, the wax seal broken open. Trevelyan appeared to be in the process of writing a reply, a blank sheet of parchment before him and a quill in his hand. From what Dorian could make out, he’d gotten no further than the formal opening.

‘Well I’m glad to see no horrible fate has befallen you,’ Dorian said crankily, feeling a little foolish for having been so worried.

‘Sorry,’ said Trevelyan distractedly, still staring down at the blank paper in front of him. He looked troubled

Dorian got a passing servant to take word down to the dining hall that all was well, and went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. A fire had been lit in the grate, which had warmed the room nicely. He sank down into an armchair upholstered in tacky red velvet, and plucked the letter from the desk. Trevelyan didn’t stop him.

Orlesians liked their correspondence long and flowery, and it took Dorian a good two paragraphs just to get past the greeting. The letter was from one of Leliana’s underlings, and it politely informed Inquisitor Trevelyan that his would-be murderer had been executed the preceding morning in the dungeons of the White Spire. The Divine wished to convey her gratitude to the Inquisition for attending her crowning, and to assure the Inquisitor that he might always be assured of a warm welcome at the Grand Cathedral.  

‘So she’s dead then,’ said Dorian, tossing the letter back onto the desk. ‘I see that becoming Divine hasn’t completely done away with Leliana’s ruthless streak.’

‘I thought they’d just keep her locked up,’ said Trevelyan flatly. He sighed and dropped his quill back into its inkpot, leaning back in his chair and staring gloomily at Dorian across the desk.

‘Are you upset about this?’ Dorian said incredulously. ‘She tried to kill you! Repeatedly I might add.’

‘But she failed,’ Trevelyan pointed out.

‘Barely,’ said Dorian. ‘And there were plenty of other people who died because of her. Don’t they deserve justice?’

‘She was mad,’ said Trevelyan.

‘So what? Corypheus was mad. Plenty of evil people are mad. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be so bloody evil.’

‘I know, I know,’ Trevelyan said. He still looked bothered. Dorian didn’t understand why. Trevelyan had hardly shied away from death in the past. He’d ordered Livius Erimond handed over to the Wardens, knowing full well they’d execute him. And he’d never shown any squeamishness about killing anyone who stood in the Inquisition’s way.

‘Do you wonder if perhaps Corinna was right?’ Trevelyan asked suddenly. He’d raised his hand, holding it out palm turned upwards. The mark glimmered, eerie green light reflecting off the walls of the room. Dorian felt the hair on his arms begin to stand on end.

‘No!’ Dorian sputtered. ‘She was a madwoman.’

‘Well yes,’ said Trevelyan, shaking his head. ‘I don’t mean about the mages, or the killing, or any of that. I mean about _this_ …’ The mark sparked again with another pulse of energy. ‘It _is_ dangerous. Corypheus intended to rule the world with it.’

‘Well unless you’ve suddenly developed some megalomaniacal tendencies and kept very quiet about it, I don’t think there’s much to worry about,’ said Dorian tetchily. He didn’t like the way this conversation was going.  

‘I thought it might begin to fade away over time,’ Maxwell said in a faraway sort of voice. He was staring fixatedly at the Anchor, his face illuminated in the green light. Dorian got the feeling he was talking to himself as much as anything. ‘But it hasn’t. In fact, I think it’s getting stronger. Sometimes it hurts. It hasn’t hurt since the Breach…’

‘You’re worrying about nothing,’ Dorian consoled him. He stood, and reached out to wrap his hands around Maxwell’s upheld one, gently folding it closed until the Anchor dimmed and faded to nothing.

‘Maybe I am,’ Trevelyan said. He smiled tiredly, and drew his hand back to push his unfinished letter away. ‘I’ll worry about it in the morning.’

‘That sounds like an excellent plan,’ said Dorian. ‘I’ll send for some wine.’

‘Haven’t you already had rather a lot of wine?’ Trevelyan said pointedly, arching one unnecessarily judgemental eyebrow.  

‘What can I say, the vintage is superb,’ said Dorian airily.

It really was. A fresh bottle was sent up to them with the compliments of their hostess. They managed just one glass each before falling into bed.

‘I’ll miss you when you go back to Tevinter,’ said Trevelyan, manhandling Dorian’s clothes off of him. When they’d first started sleeping together he’d struggled with all the complicated fastenings and ties, but now his fingers worked swiftly through them all as if it was second nature.

‘Of course you will,’ said Dorian, because even here, when it was just the two of them, he couldn’t quite drop the bravado entirely. ‘I’ll miss you too,’ he added, and then wrapped a hand around the back of Trevelyan’s head and pulled him into a deep kiss, before any other awkward emotional confessions could happen.

Trevelyan pulled back and hesitated, some unspoken words visibly hovering on the tip of his tongue. Dorian held his breath. Was he going to plead with him not to go? Beg him to reconsider? Tell Dorian that there was no point, that all his hopes and dreams for the Imperium were just that –dreams.

Whatever it was, Dorian never found out. Trevelyan chose instead to pull him close and kiss him as though he might never get the chance again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really got away from me. Big thanks to everyone who's read it, and even bigger thanks to those lovely people who've reviewed. It's always special to read that someone's enjoyed something you've worked hard on.


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